Red vs Blue: Before the Recon
by Stelladea
Summary: Before Red vs. Blue, there was Project Freelancer. The Freelancers, already subjected to a highly competitive environment, become suspicious after the Director makes an odd but strategic collaboration. What exactly did they sign themselves up for?
1. A Certain Partnership

I walked into the brightly lit training area, clipboard in hand. The large, cube-like location had been cleared of its obstacles and training edifices, creating space for each of the recruits filing into the room. Amid yawns and chatter, the soldiers stretched, preparing for a new day of training. Malcolm James Hale, leader of the UNSC reconnaissance team, stood just in front of me, back straight and hands clasped behind his back. To his right, a tall bespectacled figure stood soberly, his strong jaw lined with a splash of dark facial hair.

With just one word, he called his soldiers to order. They stopped chatting and joking instantly, falling silent and forming one straight line at attention.

The man standing to Hale's right took a step forward and began speaking to his employees.

"Freelancers," he began. "Welcome to another day. You all, so far, have done… relatively well. Your skills have improved in both combat and intelligence. You are not the petty children you once were.

"However, this is not enough. Not by a long shot. I employed you to be the best fighters an army can have, and I must say... I _am_ disappointed." His southern drawl mixed with his tone of contempt sent chills up my spine. "You must try harder. I will reward those who do well, and punish those who cannot stay ahead. Today, your training becomes much more difficult. We are at a new level, ladies and gentlemen. Expect to hurt. Expect to tire. This is no longer a game.

"As you can see here," he said, indicating me and Hale, "I have decided to form a certain partnership with the UNSC. These two will be watching your training closely and taking notes. They will track your performance and investigate your backgrounds for their own files. I have allowed this to occur only on the terms that each performance rating pass through me first. We will begin the day, as usual, with roll call. Mr. Hale here and his Agent will be in charge of getting certain information from you. I expect you all to cooperate. Good day."

The Director left the room without another word, I knew, to go and watch the proceedings from his private area above us. The tinted windows on the third story let the Director watch what occurred without being seen.

"We will speak to you individually, in alphabetical order," Hale called to the Freelancers, who still stood obediently, even though their superior had left. "Continue to stand at attention."

Hale nudged me forward, and I approached the recruits.

"I will take your name, ID number, and basic height and weight information," I called down the end of the line more confidently than I felt. "When I am finished with you, you are dismissed."

I wasn't sure if I had the authority to tell them they could leave, but I glanced over at Hale and saw him nod a fraction of an inch.

The first Freelancer was a tough young woman a little shorter than I. She watched me closely, her helmet in hand, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Name?"

"Agent Alabama."

She gave me her ID number and other information cautiously but without complaint, and when I dismissed her, she left without another word. The other Freelancers whispered to each other and pretended not to pay attention to me as I asked information from each soldier, but I knew better.

Each Freelancer I spoke to was not necessarily rude, but reserved. Not cold, but cautious. Some Freelancers seemed to take no notice of me, while others had a challenge burning in their eyes.

It was evident: I was not welcome here. Perhaps some of the soldiers would brush me off, realizing that my threat status was minimal. As for the rest, I was competition—a challenge. As a UNSC reconnaissance Agent, I had nothing to do with them. I was trained for diplomacy and self-defense—they were trained to kill. However, my single command—my single utterance allowing them to leave—had been a challenge to their authority. I had done them wrong within my first ten seconds of speech.

I continued down the line of soldiers, almost reaching the end of the line.

"Name?"

"Why?"

I looked up sharply into a bright purple helmet with green lining.

"Excuse me?"

"Why do I have to give you this information?"

I was taken aback. "Are the Director's orders not enough?"

The Freelancer put her hands on her hips, tilting her head. "So, what happens to me if I don't feel like giving it up?"

I swallowed. "What, do you really want to bring your boss into this? I don't think he'd be happy that you're not cooperating."

She scoffed. "Hiding behind authority. So typical of you UNSC Agents."

I growled. "Name and information." I had a slew of comebacks running through my mind, but I wasn't about to get fired on my first day.

The woman chuckled, said nothing, and my face burned.

"For God's sake, just give her the damn information!" the Freelancer at the end of the line said, irritated. "My breakfast is waiting in the mess hall!"

"Jesus, calm down, Wyoming," the Freelancer in front of me snapped. She turned back to me grouchily. "I'm Agent South Dakota."

She gave me the rest of her stats icily and I dismissed her.

The next Freelancer introduced himself as North Dakota.

"...But I go by North," he added. He must have seen that I was still preoccupied by Agent South Dakota's interruption. "Don't worry about South," he told me seriously. "She's a great fighter, but sometimes she thinks she owns the place. You just can't let you know she's gotten to you." He chuckled, his laugh a softer version of South's but undoubtedly similar. "After being stuck with her since birth, I've been able to learn a few tricks."

Oh. Twins. I thanked him politely and sent him on his way, finally finishing off the last few Freelancers.

"It's about time," Agent Wyoming said when I told him he was free to go. "I've got to go and beat South senseless now for holding up my breakfast."


	2. The Professional Rookie, Part I

"Agent Eleven, I need to speak with you in my office right away."

Hale's voice rang loudly in my earpiece and I flinched, turning down the volume on the radio quickly.

"Yes, sir. I'll be right there."

After hurriedly finishing the arrangement of some last-minute odds and ends on my desk, I took one last look at my small bedroom and left. I peered hastily down the hallway at the other locked doors, but, despite my curiosity, I forced myself to turn away. Instead, I sped toward Hale's temporary office and finally reached his quarters several floors above my own.

As I walked in, I couldn't help but notice how spacious his area was compared to mine. The Director had made sure that Hale had received one of the most luxurious guest rooms at the Freelancer facility. His location included an office area connected to a master bedroom big enough to house four people.

But me? No. None of that for a lowly Agent who wasn't even a Senior Officer. No underclass intern received such comfort. The Director had hardly even glanced my way as he assigned me to one of the extra bedrooms on the first floor. My space, in comparison to Hale's, was the most basic of college dorms. I sighed and took a seat opposite my superior.

"Eleven," Hale began. "We have much to discuss regarding this mission. Something I have not informed you yet." He leaned forward on his desk, staring at me intently.

"I know you have heard the rumors regarding Project Freelancer. They have been flitting around the UNSC for quite some time now... and I will tell you this: much of these are actually true. These super-soldiers are vital for our prospects of winning the war."

I had heard about this Freelancer Project from quiet whisperings throughout HQ. Nothing had really been confirmed, but the suspicions were that some sort of army was being trained to become a new variety of super-soldier. None of us had any idea what that meant, but it could only mean one thing: they were being created to win the war.

Naturally, this caused some excitement among us Agents. Enough of us had failed during our reconnaissance missions that we knew the war weighed heavily on our Agency in terms of casualties. I was chomping at the bit to find any scrap of information possible to help our case.

"Command's confidence in Dr. Church is strong." At this, Hale paused. He looked at me closely before continuing. "You see, Eleven, I myself do not share the same conviction. Much of this project seems too mysterious to be without legal infractions. The Director is not telling us his entire plan."

"How can you be so sure?"

"My discussions with him have given me sufficient evidence to be suspicious. When I first spoke with him, he seemed very reluctant to accept our help. He saw it simply as petulant intrusion. I told him we were specifically there just to check on the backgrounds of the soldiers, making sure that they are suitable for such a rigorous program."

"But… that's not all we're here for, is it?"

"Not at all, Agent. Understand this, for I will speak plainly: the Director only agreed to our collaboration if we passed our performance reviews through him first before putting them in our files.

"Eleven, I believe the Director is trying to form a system to rank the soldiers by their abilities. He will use our performance reviews to help create this system so he does not have to so alone. He is using our knowledge of battle and intelligence—since he himself has never experienced field work or war—to position his soldiers from best to worst."

"Why?"

"That is precisely why we are here. I am determined to find out exactly what is going on."

I hesitated, still confused. "But, sir… why choose me for a mission like this?" That question had been weighing on my mind since Hale had assigned me to investigate the Freelancer facility with him.

I wasn't inexperienced. I had done plenty of field work and completed missions before applying to train as a higher-ranking official. Perhaps I was not a newcomer, but when it came to the hard-core, save-the-universe stuff, I was most certainly still learning my way. I hadn't even had the chance to complete Senior Officer Training before Hale interrupted it to bring me on this mission.

I was just as surprised as the next person when I was called to Hale's office that day. I had been wrapping up another mission—which had been very narrowly successful—and I was expecting him to rebuke me for my clumsiness. During the mission, I had failed my objective and Agent 18 had gotten injured. However, I had picked up the pieces and gotten us out of the classified location alive with the information we needed.

"Eleven," Hale sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I know you were surprised when I chose you. I have plenty of other Agents who are wiser, more intelligent, more experienced, and far less clumsy than you are."

I looked up, surprised and hurt. Had that really been necessary?

"However," he continued. "I felt the need to bring you, of all people, because you completed your introductory training very well, and have been in the field multiple times. Time and time again I have seen you face disheartening prospects and triumph out of them—though, many times, roughly and with many imperfections.

"The Director is a very jealous man, Eleven. I am a higher-ranking official than he is and he feels threatened by me. If I had brought another Senior Officer with me, his suspicions would increase tenfold as to why I was bringing someone else so experienced for a simple UNSC research project. Nurturing a trusting relationship would be that much more difficult.

"This is why I need you. The Director would never feel intimidated by you because you are technically still a rookie. You have not completed your SOT, do not hold high rank, and, therefore, the Director does not see you as a threat. For this mission, I needed to find the most capable Agent of the lowest rank I could find. And… here you are."

I stared. This business had become much more complicated than I had originally thought.

"I understand now," I replied, trying to sound unconcerned. "What do I need to do?"

"Your cooperation is vital for discovering the truth to the Director's intentions. He may say he just wants to create super-soldiers through advanced technology and training, but I fear otherwise. Agent, your rank in the UNSC is roughly the same rank as those recruits of the Freelancer project. This will make things a little easier for us.

"As I just said, the Director sees you at the same rank as his employees—he sees you as inferior in every sense of the word. This works to our advantage in a variety of ways. Not only will this allow you to go into areas I or another Senior Officers would never be allowed into, but you will be able to interact directly with the Freelancers themselves to find out exactly what they know. I cannot say how much they know of this project or what they are going through, but any information that they have will help.

"I know they will be hesitant at first to trust you. They may feel that you are a threat to their already competitive society, and will watch closely your interactions with the Director. These will be minimal so as to not cause undue jealousy within the company; I will be the one interacting with him for the most part. Sometimes you will be at my side, sometimes not. If all works according to plan, we will leave this place without the Director really remembering who you are, because he will not have paid you any attention. Besides, I do not think he will waste his time lowering himself to speak to my 'assistant.'

"I know this is much to take in, but I'm counting on your help with this, Eleven. You're a hardworking and dedicated Agent—one I know will make a good Senior Officer someday. This field work, for now, however, is extremely important to the development of the war and its legalities.

"You have few tasks, but they are not simple: firstly, you must assist me in giving the Director performance reviews of the Freelancers. I myself will watch how he uses them in the ranking system he is creating. Secondly, you must interact with the other recruits and find out what they know about Project Freelancer. Thirdly, we must find out the truth of this super-soldier army Dr. Church is raising. He would not rank them without reason. I know there is something amiss here." He paused, watching my face earnestly. "It is a tall order, Agent, but I have confidence in your abilities."


	3. The Professional Rookie, Part II

My mind buzzed as I strode back to my assigned quarters. Things seemed to make more sense now. My room had been placed just down the hall from the rest of the Freelancers' quarters; Dr. Church had been more careful in placing Hale far away from them, more near his own master bedroom. He obviously didn't care where I stayed. A stupid intern wouldn't be able to cause any harm, in his opinion.

The Director had probably not even looked my way during our first meeting, and my presence here could virtually go unnoticed. Hale just needed to keep the Director distracted so we could fulfill his request while at the same time finding out what was truly going on.

The Freelancers were all in training for the rest of the day. Hale and I had decided that I would wait until dinner before I approached the Freelancers again; the Director had explicitly stated that only high-ranking officials ate with him. Naturally, that included Hale and excluded me. All of the lower levels of his obscure bureaucracy ate in the mess hall. At the moment, that was just me and the Freelancers.

While Hale drank fine scotch with the Director in his personal bar area, I scoped out the rest of the facility. So as not to look conspicuous, I brought my old gym bag with me and pretended I was having a hard time reaching the Freelancers' weight room.

After taking the long way to the weight room and orienting myself with the general layout of the Freelancer facility, I opened the door to the locker room and stepped inside. If I had any hope of keeping up with the Freelancers, I needed to keep my skills sharp and my strength agile. I would never actually be in combat with them, but I felt the need to at least keep up appearances. As Hale said before, I was nowhere close to being the best Agent out there… but for this mission, I had to try.

I looked around the locker room, unsure about where to change. Every locker seemed to be taken, secured tightly with a large black lock. I needed to find a vacant one or risk leaving my armor out in the open. While I didn't think that this was a criminal atmosphere, I didn't want to take any chances.

As I scanned the row, I noticed two lockers were ajar. The first was labeled TEXAS, but the second one I saw nearer to the beginning of the line caught my eye. In faded capital letters, the locker bore one word: FLORIDA.

I frowned. No Agent Florida existed. Not since… well. Poor Florida.

I didn't know why an abandoned locker would be named after a nonexistent state (and Freelancer), but that meant that it wouldn't be occupied… right?

I tentatively reached the locker and pulled it open; it was completely empty. I glanced at the two lockers stacked neatly beside it—the one to the left said CAROLINA and the one to the right had GEORGIA—and both were secured with black locks.

I changed into my workout clothing hastily and stuffed my armor inside the empty Florida space, using one of the locks on my armor belt to secure it shut. The bright blue of my lock stood out against the uniform black of everyone else's, but I shrugged and headed to the workout room.

I set up on a machine and began doing reps, concentrating hard on the heaviness of the weights. After I tired, I switched to another machine, and then another. Before I knew it, I had been in the workout area for an hour. I sat down on another machine, and as I lifted the weights, I heard a noise at the door.

"Uh… Hello?"

I almost dropped the weights with a clang as I jolted upright. Another Freelancer stood in the doorway, but I couldn't remember his name from the day before. I hadn't taken much notice of him.

"Hi," I said, trying to sound casual. The soldier had changed out of his armor and now wore old gym shorts and a gray tank top lined with yellow stripes down the sides. He sat beside me at the next machine over, shifting the weights to a heaviness I could only dream of lifting.

"Remind me your name, again?" I asked. "Well, not your name, obviously. I mean your code name. Your state. You know."

"It's Washington," the Freelancer responded.

"What exactly are you doing here?" I asked, trying not to sound too rude. "I thought all of you were still training."

"Well, there's a training session still going on, yes," the soldier said, grunting as he lifted his weights. Embarrassed, I continued using my machine as well. "But whoever does the best during the rounds gets out early. Just happened to be my lucky day, I guess."

"I see…" I said slowly.

"And you?" he asked.

"What about me?"

"Well, I sort of had the idea that you should be, you know, up there fine dining with the Director and the other guy from UNSC recon."

I laughed. "You think the Director would allow someone of my rank up there with him and all the VIPs? As far as I'm concerned, he thinks I'm a janitor or something."

"I highly doubt that. Your look doesn't exactly scream 'janitor,' you know."

"Well, I could pull it off if I tried."

The Freelancer chuckled. "Right. The whole secret spy deal, right? You guys are crazy about all that sneaking around."

"Bingo." I smirked. This Freelancer didn't seem terrible, at least. "You should be scared of all that I could do."

"Ooh, I'm terrified. What would you do, smack me with your clipboard? Or a broom, I guess, Miss Janitor?"

"That and much more. You underestimate me."

"Maybe," the soldier smiled. "So… do you have a name along with all those recon skills?"

"I do."

Washington paused, waiting. I simply looked at him, my eyebrows raised.

He chuckled. "Are you going to tell me what it is?"

"Mmm…" I paused, pretending to think. "Nope. Afternoon, Agent Washington."

With that, I flashed him a swift smile and left the workout room. The conversation was straying to dangerous territory, and I wasn't about to go there. Not now, not ever.

* * *

><p>After reentering the locker room and showering, I changed back into my armor. As I was just about to take my bright blue lock from the Florida locker, one of the other Freelancers strode into the changing room and stopped as she saw me. She wore pale blue armor—a much lighter shade than mine.<p>

"Hello," I said politely, removing my lock from the Florida locker with a click and taking out the rest of my gear. "Good training session?"

Her eyes narrowed as she watched me close the locker again. I walked past her toward the changing room door.

"It was fine," she responded shortly. She then proceeded to ignore me and reached her own locker, opening it ostentatiously. It was the locker directly to the left of the one I had used. Carolina.

I frowned at her coldness as she continued to disregard my presence, but decided against questioning anything at this point. I shrugged and left the area, wondering what on earth had happened during her training session to make her so upset.

…Or had I been the one to anger her?


	4. The Professional Rookie, Part III

After a brief radio conference with Hale, I headed to the mess hall for dinner. The other Freelancers were already there—I heard the loud chatter of the dining area long before I reached it—and stepped inside. The large, plain room sat several long tables, each with many Freelancers. A half-eaten buffet table stood at the far end of the room, and I cringed. I would need to walk all the way across the hall to reach it. I half wanted to turn around and go back to my room without dinner, but knew that wasn't an option.

I sighed. Feeling as if I were trapped in the first day of high school all over again, I took a deep breath and walked across the room to the buffet table. The loud chatter of the Freelancers became punctuated with mutters and whispers, barely audible but definitely present. I felt their eyes bore into my back as I served myself a plate of food and turned around.

The Freelancers continued to talk among themselves, but I saw their glances turn my way periodically. I looked around for somewhere I might sit, and saw an empty spot. I forced myself to walk over and smile.

"Hi," I said to a chatting group. "Is anyone sitting here?"

"No," one of the Freelancers replied, looking surprised.

"Mind if I sit down?"

His friends stared at him. "Well, I don't see why not," he shrugged.

He moved over and made room for me. I sat tentatively, aware that some Freelancers had begun staring.

"Sorry, but…" one of the Freelancer's friends inquired from across the table. She was the first Freelancer I had interrogated in the morning. Agent Alabama. "Who exactly are you?"

"I'm Agent Eleven. From the UNSC. I'll be here for a while with my—"

"No, no, I understand that," she replied, spooning macaroni into her mouth. "I mean… what are you doing here? Like, in the mess hall with us? Shouldn't you be schmoozing up in the dining room with the Director?"

I sighed. "My rank isn't that high," I said carefully. had to toe the fine line between superior and subordinate. "My boss was welcome. I wasn't."

"What a surprise," muttered another Freelancer. "The king sits with his royal court yet again."

I chuckled, somewhat surprised at his rash comment. Perhaps they did understand. "Listen, we weren't really properly introduced this morning," I said to them. "Maybe we could start over?"

"Sure, why not?" The Freelancer beside me held out his hand. "I'm West Virginia, but, like I already told you this morning, just call me Wes." We shook hands, both laughing at the awkwardness of the situation.

"Screw formalities," said the Freelancer sitting in front of me. She shrugged. "Just call me Bama." She turned to her left and elbowed the Freelancer beside her. "Your turn."

"I'm Georgia," she said quietly, smiling shyly.

"Delaware here," the soldier on Bama's other side interrupted.

"Listen, Eleven," Wes interrupted. "I still don't really understand your situation here. The Director never asks for help from outside parties. He's made it clear that our work is classified."

"Well, we have our fair share in in dealing with classified information," I explained. "It's like… it's like I'm here to help the Director give you check-ups and make sure you're all fit enough to be a part of this program." I prayed that sounded all right to them. Not too intrusive. "Honestly, you probably won't ever see me except for mealtimes."

"Well, I don't care what you do, as long as you're not, like, replacing us or anything." Bama said the comment casually enough, but the others flashed looks at me questioningly.

"No, no," I responded quickly. "The Director hardly knows I exist, and I am in no way trained to participate in such intense conditions. I'm just a UNSC Agent. Nothing else."

"Then why were you using the Florida locker?" asked another Agent from farther down. I turned to her, frowning. It was Carolina again. She was watching me suspiciously and had been overhearing our conversation. A few other soldiers turned to look at me curiously.

Bama turned to me, frowning. "You used the Florida locker?"

"Um, was that against the rules?"

"Well, not really. It's just that… no one's ever used it before."

"Why is it even there?" I asked them. "You don't have an Agent Florida."

"This facility was built way before Project Freelancer started. The Director had been planning the whole thing for a long time," Del explained. "We think that he probably had plans for a fiftieth Freelancer before Florida… well, you know. We think that he even had a chick picked out for the job, but abandoned the idea out of respect to the now-nonexistent state."

"Oh God…" I gasped. "Was I using a memorial as a locker?"

The others laughed. "I don't think it goes quite that far," Georgia said. "But the fact that you did put your things there is a little questionable."

"What does that mean?"

"It _means_ that we think you're a liar," Carolina spat. I turned to her.

"Excuse me?"

"Why the hell would you not be up there kissing up to the Director if you're not trying to become one of us? The Director always has guests stay specifically with him."

More Freelancers stopped their conversations and turned our way.

"Listen," I replied irritably. "I'm here purely for intelligence. I'm just collecting information about you. I'm not in any way affiliated with this project, so stop trying to pretend I'm the next Agent Florida! I'll be leaving once Hale and I are done with our records, and I'll be out of your lives forever. I can see now that that will be a relief."

Carolina's frown didn't lessen. "Why don't you just mind your own business?"

"Damn, give it a rest, will you, Carolina?" Del complained. "So the girl wanted to work out. Is that such a big deal?"

Carolina glared at him and turned away, speaking in a low voice to the Freelancer on her right.

"Don't listen to Carolina," Bama said to me casually. She had been completely unphased by the confrontation. "She's a bitch today because Wash beat her during training. She gets pissy when _anyone_ does that. I guess your arrival was just the cherry on top."

"I'm not trying to interfere here, I'm serious," I said honestly. "I don't know how to make that more clear."

"It's unfortunate, but that's the way things are around here," Wes said, shrugging. "Anyone who comes here is going to be subject to suspicion, and that includes you now." He looked away. "I'll admit it—I was surprised when you came into the mess hall here with us. And when I heard that thing about the locker." He shrugged. "I dunno. There's no reason for you to lie, really."

"Yeah, and who gives a shit what they think anyway?" Bama asked. I was really starting to like her. "Just do your thing and everyone will see that you're not trying to replace us."

The conversation slowly died and turned to other topics, and I was eager to jump in and speak about anything besides me.

"What are you doing after dinner?" I asked. "More training?"

"Yeah, we have a couple more sessions to go still," Del answered, covering a dinner roll with butter and biting into it. "We've got a weapons seminar and then an advanced technology lecture. We should be done after that."

"What are you doing after this?" inquired Georgia curiously. "Are you coming with us?"

"No, no, of course not. I've got a meeting with my boss anyway. I have some paperwork to fill out. I'll be in my room for the rest of the day."

"Where are you staying?" asked Wes. "Up on the higher levels? I heard those guest suites are amazing."

"No, not at all. You guys seriously think I'm a way higher rank than I am. I'm just using an extra room that's just down the hall from all of yours. Nothing fancy."

"You're staying near us?" Bama echoed. "Which room?"

"109."

"Oh, that's right near our rooms," Del said, indicating himself and Georgia. "I'm 108 and Georgia's 110."

"Right. Like I said, nothing fancy."

"Hmm."

A large bell tolled, signaling the end of dinner. I got up with the Freelancers and walked to the doorway with them.

"Well, it was nice to meet you," I said, still a little uneasy. I wasn't sure if my first interaction with them had been a success or not.

"Later, Eleven," Wes said. "Maybe we'll see you tonight."

They turned from me and followed the other Freelancers toward their next training session. I was just about to leave when I heard Bama's carrying voice echo through the hall.

"I don't know what to think," she was saying to Wes. "Why would the Director give her the Florida room?"

I cringed.

"I don't know," Wes said. "It's only fair that we give her a chance, you know? I know that we're all cutthroat and shit around here, but we can't just automatically assume she's lying to us."

"Besides," Del added, "If she were a new recruit, she wouldn't have been asking us all that information and shit this morning. She would have been standing in line."

"How do you know she's not being secretly trained to be our leader or something?"

"We don't," Wes said simply, shrugging slightly. "We'll just have to wait and see."

I sighed and headed back to my room. This was going to take a lot of work.


	5. The Professional Rookie, Part IV

I heard a gentle knock at my door.

"Hi, Georgia!" I said, opening the door, thankful for a familiar (and perhaps friendly?) face. "What's up?"

"Well," she said. "I was just wondering if you'd like to come over to my room for a little bit. I know it can be lonely your first few days here."

My paperwork could certainly wait. "Sure. I'll be right there."

I walked into her room, which had the same layout as mine did. Very standard, very Spartan.

"I really appreciate this," I said, sitting down at her bed. She took at seat at her desk chair. "I don't think I've made a good impression to everyone else."

"This always happens when a guest comes to visit," Georgia said kindly. "There's always some talk about how we're getting replaced and whatnot. Your case is just different because we've never had someone here who actually stayed so close to us personally."

"Yeah, I understand," I replied. "I just don't know how to explain it any more than I have."

"Well, this is probably the first time that someone's visited who's not a super high-ranking official as well," Georgia added. "I suppose we're just going to have to get used to it."

I gazed at her closely. "None of you trusts me at all, do you?"

She sighed. "It's difficult to trust when you've been raised in such a competitive environment. There's a lot of animosity and suspicion. I think the Director likes it that way. He doesn't think that we can get too close to each other, you know? He wants us to stay competitive. I'm sure half the Freelancers think you're an Agent Florida or something. I'll be honest with you—I don't know if I trust you entirely myself. But I know I don't stack up to the best Freelancers around here, so I don't see you as such a threat.

"Carolina is definitely near the top of the group. She would see you as a threat to her standing."

I frowned. "Are you all actually ranked in order of how skilled you are?"

"No," Georgia explained. "But we know that the Director has his favorites. He's very careful with how he gives out compliments, and we take any special attention he gives us very seriously."

"That's got to be a hard life," I murmured.

"Yes," Georgia agreed, her tone lined with a touch of resentment. "It's not easy, especially with our current situation."

I looked up. "Your current situation? What's that?"

"Well," she explained. "The only other state not represented at the moment is Texas. I'm sure you noticed that."

I nodded. During that morning's roll call, I had only interviewed forty-eight Freelancers.

"I'm not sure why, but the name's reserved," Georgia continued. "None of us wants to admit it, but… we're nervous. Way too jumpy about all this. We hear rumors about Agent Texas, this new recruit, but he or she hasn't shown up yet at all. That's why there's so much suspicion surrounding you. I doubt people actually think you're Agent Texas, but considering you are using all the Florida stuff, people just don't know what to think of you."

"Have you heard anyone else talking about me?" I asked somewhat warily.

Georgia nodded. "Yeah, you're pretty much _the_ topic of conversation right now. What did you expect? You heard us all at dinner."

I sighed. "I just don't know. I think I need to get to know more of you. So far, I've just met you, Del, Alabama, Wes, Carolina, and Washington."

Georgia looked up at me. "Oh, you met Wash? Yeah, he's a good guy."

"Oh yeah, I only spoke to him briefly at the gym. He'd gotten out of training early."

"Yeah. He's a really decent person. Some people around here try to act all tough to prove they're worth something, but Wash is this straight-laced guy who just knows what he's doing. Well, most of the time. He can be a goof."

"Do you know him well, then?"

"Del, Bama, and Wes are my better colleagues, but I think Wash and I are on good terms. I can't say that I've spoken to him all that often, though. Just like at any workplace, you get closer to some than others. But I try not to cause problems with anyone. Besides, I'm not skilled enough to be wary of keeping myself in good standing. I came into this program thinking I was fighting the aliens, not competing against people on my own team."

I nodded. "Sometimes, politics can mask the true cause, you know?"

"Definitely."

I looked over at her clock and cringed. Damn. Where had the time gone? I still had so much paperwork to do.

"Well, thanks for having me over, Georgia," I said to her, standing up and moving to the doorway. "You have no idea how nice it was to be welcomed by at least one of you."

Georgia smiled. "Don't worry about it. We're neighbors now, and it the first night somewhere new is always difficult. I know we don't all trust you right now, but I hope you feel at least a little better about things."

"I do," I said, and meant it. "Again… thanks."

I left the room, closing her door gently behind me. In the hallway, most of the Freelancers' doors were closed, but some were cracked. I heard low conversations and laughter permeating the air as the different soldiers visited each other for some late night conversations. Part of me wished I could be a part of it. That I actually could be accepted here. I knew it was a stupid wish; I would probably be leaving in a few weeks anyway.

It wouldn't be enough time for them to trust me.


	6. The Professional Rookie, Part V

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of the commotion of the other Freelancers beginning their day. I took note of the time, ready to set my alarm clock for the next day, and got dressed as well.

In the mess hall, I grabbed some breakfast and slid in the same seat I had taken yesterday. Wes walked over and sat down next to me, to my immense relief.

"Good first night?" he asked, digging into some cereal.

"I couldn't really sleep, but it was all right, thanks for asking."

"Morning," Del yawned, slumping into the seat opposite me. "These early days are just gonna kill me."

"You said it," Bama replied, sitting down as well and sucking down a cup of coffee. "Eleven, how're you holding up?"

"Fine," I said. "You guys have another full day planned?"

"Yep," she replied. "We've got combat training right after breakfast. How much you wanna bet that'll last all damn day?"

"Ugh, they'd better not drag it out that long again," Del said, stretching out his back. "I'm still sore from last week. Those paint guns hurt like hell."

Bama watched me carefully. "You coming with us?"

"Yeah, I think I am," I said a little nervously.

"So what are you going to be doing?" she asked a little too intently.

"I'm just going to—"

"Well, look who decided to show up again this morning?"

I turned around and saw a pale blue soldier standing above me. I grimaced.

"Good morning to you too, Carolina."

"What exactly do you think you're doing?"

"Eating breakfast."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. What makes you think that you can just come down here and join us like it's no big deal?"

I glared at her. "It just so happens that I was assigned to hang around you. You think I would pick that Florida room over one of the guest suites or eat in the mess hall if I could have all the good food from the dining room?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You'd better watch yourself, Agent. If you think that you can just walk in here and _belong_ with us, you have another damn thing coming."

* * *

><p>The Freelancers lined up on the training room floor, and I went through roll call. They responded with slightly surprised tones of voice, obviously perplexed that I was the one calling out their names this time. Things were definitely changing for them.<p>

Once I noted they were all here, I left the training room floor and entered one of the viewing areas. I'd be able to see everything that went on from there.

A trainer stalked into the area and told the soldiers curtly to pair up. I watched as duos easily emerged, each Freelancer sliding toward whomever he or she felt most comfortable fighting. I saw York edge casually toward Carolina, leaving Washington to pair off with Maine. Wyoming leaned jauntily to Connecticut, while North and South Dakota magnetized together. I had trouble writing down the pairings as they appeared_… Kentucky and Kansas… Del and Georgia… New Jersey and Pennsylvania…_

I just barely jotted down the last sparring couple before they began training. At first, they started individually, following the head trainer as he guided them through various martial arts moves in the air in front of them. Sharp jabs and kicks punctuated the air in a military rhythm as the Freelancers obediently followed the trainer.

After the warm up, the trainer instructed them on different tactics regarding close-range drills. How to escape if someone had them by the wrist. The shoulders. The neck. The groin.

After a short lecture about which skills they should focus on, the trainer told the Freelancers to begin sparring. As if they did so every day—and they probably did—the Freelancers stretched out and cracked their knuckles, spreading far enough apart from each other to have enough room for close-range fighting.

I watched closely as the Freelancers began their bouts. North and South Dakota were both so agile, I wondered if it were even fair that they were fighting each other. They moved so nimbly that their fights looked almost choreographed; they were perfect matches for one another, almost completely even.

I took notes on the purple-clad duo for a while before moving on to the next couple. The fighting soon progressed and became more intense—the soldiers were starting to get more competitive.

I noticed that each Freelancer had different strengths, all equally powerful. Maine had brute force. Washington was quick, his reflexes impeccable. York was an intelligent fighter, dodging and jabbing at just the right moments.

But… Carolina was something else. Her martial arts skills were incredible. As close as York came to beating her during the spars, she always kicked his butt by the end. It was insane.

Soon, the trainer told them all to switch partners. Panting heavily, York fist-pumped Carolina good-naturedly and wandered over to Wash. Maine shrugged and joined up with CT; Wyoming paired himself with South. The groups switched and they began the entire sparring process over again.

The hours passed, and the Freelancers only got sporadic breaks from their grueling training. I had never seen anything like it. Their sessions were almost like full-on fights.

After the entire day passed, the Freelancers left the training room to hit the showers before dinner. I had only been watching them, and I was exhausted. The Freelancers were truly super-soldiers. They were the best of the best. The only reason I had seen any of them lose in a fight was because they had been facing _each other_. In any real military situation, they would kick some serious alien ass.

I thought back to the conversation I had with Hale regarding the Director's suspicious behavior, and I almost laughed. Who _cared_ if the Director wanted to rank his soldiers? Personally, I didn't see how he could do that anyway. I had written down all of my observations, and, in my opinion, each Freelancer was just as good as the next. Sure, some lost or won a few more bouts than others—I had kept careful track of that—but every single one had incredible talent. Their strengths were all just different. To me, they were all equally skilled.

These soldiers were obviously being trained to help us win this war. They were just incredible.

How could Hale possibly think this was suspicious? The Director was the good guy here.

I was sure of it.


	7. The Fight, Part I

"How was your first day of observation?" Hale asked, sipping a cup of coffee. We were both sitting at his desk reviewing our days. He had spent the entire time with the Director but hadn't gleaned any useful information from him. "What have you found?"

"The recruits are just incredible," I said, taking out my paperwork. I spread the sheets across his desk. "They're the best fighters I've ever seen. They're even better than the UNSC's reconnaissance team."

Hale picked up my files and began sorting through them.

"Your observations look quite objective." He nodded approvingly.

"Honestly, I don't know how the Director is going to rank these Freelancers. They're all almost completely evenly matched."

"Indeed…" Hale murmured as he continued sifting through the piles. "From what you have here, each soldier has his or her individual strengths and weaknesses."

"Yes. And they all seem to balance each other out."

There was a brief pause as Hale read my paperwork.

"Mr. Hale?"

"Yes?"

I hesitated. "If I may be so bold, I… I really don't think there's anything suspicious about Dr. Church or this program."

Hale looked up sharply. "What makes you say that?"

"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully. "He's made it clear that he wants to work to win the war. I mean, as I already said, these soldiers are absolutely unbeatable. I mean, is it really such a problem if the Director wants to rank them? Does it really matter?"

Hale watched me closely. "Tell me, Eleven," he said in a very businesslike tone. "If his soldiers are so amazing, why does he want so badly to rank them?"

I stopped. "I… uh… I don't know, sir."

"If his soldiers are so evenly matched, what would be the point of it?"

"…I don't know, sir."

"And if they're just here to win the war, why use rankings at all? If they're the best of the best already, why waste time with further training when they could be out fighting real battles?"

My face burned with embarrassment. "I don't know, sir."

Hale watched my face turn red, and softened his voice a bit. "Neither do I, Eleven. It makes no sense. That is why we are here. I firmly believe that there is suspicious activity afoot, and we will stay until we figure things out. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," I said meekly. I still didn't agree with Hale, but there was no use arguing with him. He had made his point clear: we weren't bailing out. Not when we had no idea what was going on in the Director's mind.

"Now," Hale said, pointedly changing the subject. "You may collect your papers. I had to approve them today, but, from now on, you need not pass them through me first. I have seen that they are satisfactory. The Director requires that the paperwork be turned in to the box outside his office promptly after each training day. This is advantageous for us, because he neither knows nor cares that you're the one delivering the observations. To him, you're just another means of information.

"Drop your files off at the Director's office. Be quick about it. I don't want him—or any other of his staff members, for that matter—to catch you lollygagging. It'll only look suspicious, and the last thing we need is to anyone in Project Freelancer to harbor any sort of bad feelings toward UNSC Reconnaissance. It will take a long time to gain his trust, and we cannot afford to make any mistakes."

I nodded and collected my papers amid Hale's final instructions.

"You are dismissed, Agent Eleven. Until tomorrow."

I left his office, closing the door quietly behind me. I made my way to the Director's office according to Hale's directions, committing the path to memory. The doors were extravagant and luxurious compared to the rest of the military-style hallway. A small drop box hung neatly from the wall just to the right of the doors. Without hesitating, I left my paperwork in the box and left, making my way back down to the mess hall.

The Freelancers had already begun their meal, so I grabbed my food quickly and sat down beside Georgia.

"Nice job today, guys," I said to them between bites of corn on the cob. "That was intense."

"Welcome to Project Freelancer," Wes said darkly, rubbing his neck. "Every night I feel like my ass has been removed from my body and kicked across the building."

"Tell me about it," Del added, yawning widely. "I always think that the training can't possibly get any harder the next day… and it does."

"What were you doing, Eleven?" asked Bama curiously. "We saw you go up to one of the viewing areas."

"I was just taking notes on your training," I said. "The Director wants observations. It's not really anything special."

Georgia frowned. "It's very odd that he would have a UNSC Agent do that," she commented. "Wouldn't it be just as effective to have one of the staff members around here do it?"

I shrugged. That thought hadn't occurred to me—and then I remembered Hale's words. The Director wanted to use the _UNSC's _military experience to help give him the observations he wanted. "I guess he wanted your information from a UNSC Agent's point of view. We can get pretty specialized, I suppose."

The others murmured in assent and we continued the meal talking about other things. I knew they were still dying to know further details on what it was exactly that I was doing, but I just couldn't give them peace of mind.

After dinner, Del, Bama, Georgia, Wes and I joined the rest of the Freelancers and began heading back to our rooms. I approached the doors leading out of the mess hall; however, I tried exiting at the same exact time another soldier did and collided with her forcefully.

"Ow!" I yelped. I recognized her pale blue armor as she huffed in frustration. I groaned_._

"Would you watch where you're going?" Carolina barked, dusting herself off irritably.

My eyes narrowed. "It was a mistake, all right? Calm down."

"Don't tell me what to do," she growled. "You UNSC Agents need to learn to get out of the way of your superiors."

"Superiors?" I sputtered, outraged. "Don't forget who's calling the damn roll call in the mornings from now on, Carolina!"

"Ooh, you can call names off a list and write shit down. How clever," she replied. "Come on, Agent. You'll never be able to measure up to us."

My eyebrows raised. "Tell me, why the _hell_ would I want to be like you?"

By now, most of the Freelancers had stopped and were looking at our fight, their brows knitted.

"At least I don't have to lie to get myself noticed around here," she glowered.

"At least I don't have to overreact to accidentally bumping into someone like it's the damn end of the world."

She snarled, clenching her fists tightly in anger. "You want to settle this on the training room floor?"

I looked around at the other Freelancers gazing at me curiously. Without stopping to think about it, I let my frustration out in one reckless answer.

"It's on."


	8. The Fight, Part II

_Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit._

I had just decided to do battle against a trained super-soldier.

"How could you do that?" asked Georgia worriedly later that night. We were sitting in her room again but were this time joined by the rest of her friends. "She's the best Freelancer here!"

I admitted it. My mouth had gotten the better of me. I shouldn't have given in to her taunts. I should have taken the higher road and turned the other way, allowing her to get whatever satisfaction she wanted out of putting me down.

There was nothing I could do about that now.

* * *

><p>The next morning, I awoke with a terrible pit in my stomach. I would surely pay for my recklessness now.<p>

We had decided on a certain form of competition—she had chosen, of course.

"All right, this is the way it's going to go," she had told me minutes after deciding to spar. "We're doing a little training session called the 'two of three.' There are going to be three points possible for each of us. We're not going to do the whole huge battle training scenario—I just don't know how much your weak UNSC body can take."

I said nothing, but waited for her to continue. She smirked and spoke again. "The first round will be the weaponry round. We'll use the bugle sticks. We will fight with the bugle sticks until one of us wins two rounds. Whoever wins twice with the bugle sticks first gets the first point.

Then, we'll have the second round. Hand-to-hand combat. We'll do the same thing for that—compete to win the first two bouts. Again, whoever gets there first will get the second point.

"By this time, we probably won't need a tiebreaker," she said smugly. "However, if for some odd reason we happen to be tied by the end of the two rounds, then we'll do one more round—the paint guns. This won't follow the same form. This time, it'll just be one shot to win. Instant death. Or, for me, instant victory."

My heart beat wildly as I remembered her words and made my way to the training area.

I only had one advantage over her—and it was one I planned to use to the fullest. I had already observed her for an entire day and taken copious notes on her tactics and habits.

I already was familiar with how she fought.

She, on the other hand, had no idea what my experience was—and, better yet, she didn't know how much I knew about her fighting tactics.

It wasn't much, but it was the only thing I had. As I strode toward the training area, I ran through her fights with York through my mind over and over again, trying to remember as much as possible. I didn't have a battle plan, exactly, but I knew her techniques and wouldn't, perhaps, be too surprised by them.

* * *

><p>I groaned, rolling over to my side and slowly standing back up off the ground. We were only about five minutes into the fight and Carolina had already beaten my ass in the first round—the bugle sticks.<p>

Rubbing my now-sore butt, I trudged to my side of the training area, putting up my bugle stick. I gazed, embarrassed, at the scoreboard:

_Carolina: 1—Eleven: 0_

The next round was hand-to-hand combat. It would go the same way: three bouts total, two to win. At this rate, we wouldn't even need to advance to the tiebreaker round. Ugh.

The training area reset and Carolina and I approached each other for the second time, this time without any weapons in hand. She cracked her knuckles, cocking her head jauntily at me as if bored. I glared at her.

The training area's computerized voice gave us the go-ahead and the second round began.

We circled around each other slowly, and something occurred to me. When she had been sparring with York, they had always started with this circling. Hmm. Then she would lean backwards a little bit to throw him off, going in for the kill seconds later.

I decided not to initiate an attack first. Whenever York had done that, her reflexes always caught it and she sent him flying through the air with a painful smack to the ground. We carefully continued to step in circles, and I hardly dared breathe.

Then… she leaned back.

She thrust herself forward and threw a fast punch at me, but I narrowly ducked beneath it and stuck a leg out to her ankles. In her attempt to get at me, she tripped and was about to fall to the ground with a thud (like I would have) but she recovered with an elegant somersault and regained her balance.

As if she had planned my tripping her, she used the momentum from her roll to swing her leg out at me in a swift side kick, and it was all I could do to scramble out of the way before her foot narrowly passed my head. In a split second's decision, I reached out and grabbed her passing ankle tightly. I used the energy from her kick to station myself in place, swinging her leg and body around myself in a circle. Then I let go—her body went flying and slammed against the wall, crumpling to the ground.

For about two seconds, the entire room was silent. Carolina was dazed for only a moment, but it was just long enough.

I had won the first of the three bouts in the hand-to-hand combat round.

Even through the one-way glass, I could feel the watching Freelancers staring at me. Carolina just… didn't lose.

I gulped nervously.

It was just luck. The only reason I had been able to do that was because I had noticed her doing the same exact move repeatedly on York the day before. I simply knew when I could duck and where she would be vulnerable. It wasn't my skill, but her mistake. I had taken advantage of it.

She stood up, breathing heavily and seething. We started the next bout, and she didn't circle around this time. She lunged at me instantly and began throwing punches at lightning speed. I dodged as many as possible, shoving her fists away with my arms. Growling in concentration, I tried to fight back, but she backed up a couple steps and then ran at me. I was ready this time and raised my fist to shove it calculatedly into her jaw, but before I could, she took a flying leap over my head, somersaulting in the air. As she flipped above me, she stuck out one foot and kicked me, hard, in the back of the head. I staggered forward, falling to the ground as stars popped in front of my eyes.

Shit. I had lost the second bout. Shaking my head to clear the disorientation, I stood back up and steadied myself in time for the computerized voice to announce the final bout. She had landed gracefully from the flip and was waiting for me to stand back up, her head tilted amusedly.

The computerized voice told us to begin the next bout. I instantly attacked, pretending to go in for a kick. In the millisecond she was distracted with my leg, I changed course and swung my arm up for an uppercut punch. She caught my bluff instantaneously and my fist only just grazed her helmet. _Damn it!_

I scooted back away from her as she attacked next. She violently spun her own body around, increasing her energy to make her side fist strike exponentially more powerful, but I ducked beneath her arm and aimed a hard front kick at her back as it turned to face me; however, she side-stepped out of reach of my leg, so I was left kicking the air. I stumbled forward a bit, almost tripping over my own leg, but recovered just in time to spin around to face her again before she could do anything else.

Our violent kicks and punches continued, and I kept getting flashbacks of her fighting with York the previous day. Her moves sometimes seemed rehearsed, as if she practiced every day which tactics she liked to use. That was the only reason I could narrowly escape getting my ass kicked again. I had already seen all of this.

Finally, she tried the same move again from the last bout—the flying kick-flip. This time, I was ready for it. As she jumped above me and stuck out her leg, I leapt out of the way and gave her an extremely hard shove as she was in the air. She yelled as her flip was interrupted and she flew to the side, crashing clumsily to the floor.

I stared at her temporarily immobile form on the ground, just as shocked as the next soldier.

I had won the round.

Almost unable to believe it, I gazed up at the scoreboard.

_Carolina: 1—Eleven: 1_

My stomach dropped. We had to advance to the tiebreaker round. The paint guns.

Carolina stood back up—not hurt, but just enraged—and we settled to opposite sides of the training arena, picking up the paint-loaded guns as the field was reset with large, square columns. I took a deep breath. _Okay, Eleven_, I told myself_. You can do this._ _Just concentrate._

"Final round," the computerized voice announced. "Begin."

Holding my gun low, I stalked closely behind the first column I reached. I heard her shuffle around from the other side of the arena, and then everything became quiet.

Panting with nervousness, I peeked around the side of the column, but saw nothing. I needed to get further into the field if we were going to have any sort of action at all, but I had no idea where she was.

After checking around the corner of my column, I began moving in toward the middle of the arena against my gut feeling.

Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of pale blue. I looked sharply to my left and saw her ducking behind a column on the other side of the training room floor. I took a nervous shot at her column, and, of course, didn't come anywhere close to hitting her. She peeked her head around the corner and saw me. Shit. I had given away my position.

I ran for another column, shooting blindly at her as I went. I made it there safely, but when I looked back at her now viewable position, Carolina was gone. I waited for her to appear again, my gun tensed. Then, I saw her running between two more columns and I fired at her. The paint missed again and I cursed under my breath as I lost sight of her.

I didn't see her again for a long time. I moved stealthily between columns, ready to shoot at anything that moved, making my way over to the area around which I had seen her last. I pressed myself against a column, peering around it slowly, when several things happened at once.

I heard a whoosh and a sharp crash from behind me as Carolina jumped from the top of the column and landed loudly on the ground. Before I had any time to react, she raised her gun up to my head and shot me point-blank.

The paint collided with my helmet, enveloping it and rendering my limbs immobile. I skidded across the training room floor and landed with a loud thud to the ground, my head pounding painfully.

Through a small hole in the paint splatter across my helmet, I saw the scoreboard above me:

_Carolina: 2—Eleven: 1_

I had lost.


	9. The Fight, Part III

I slowly got to my feet as the stiffness of my armor wore off. The paint completely enveloped my helmet, so I ripped it off and showed my face—crimson with embarrassment—to Carolina. As the training floor reset itself, I approached her and held out my hand to shake hers.

She stood, arms crossed, staring at me. When I reached out to her, she stood for a moment, savoring my defeat before painfully crushing my palm in what couldn't rightly be called a handshake.

We both walked toward the exit of the training room, and I expected the Freelancers to crowd Carolina and congratulate her. They'd give her all the adulation she expected, and then I would be the new object of scorn. I cringed as we made our way through the exit of the training room. Had I just usurped my own mission?

Just as I began to panic, I was charged by a group of Freelancers. They all spoke at once, laughing heartily and clapping me on my shoulders.

"Damn, girl, where'd you learn those moves?"

"That was some pretty sweet action."

"That moment when you slammed her into the wall—blew my mind."

I cocked my head. "But… but I lost."

"Who gives a shit? You're not a Freelancer. For being from the UNSC, that was pretty legit."

* * *

><p>Later on, after I had separated myself from the Freelancers who had approached me, I hit the locker room; I was in desperate need of a shower. I found Georgia there, who I still hadn't talked to amid the chaos of the battle's aftermath.<p>

"You know, I don't think that could have gone better if you planned it," she was saying. I was showering, and she sat casually by her locker outside, speaking to me through the curtain. We were the only two present. "I'm serious."

"What do you mean by that?" I called.

"Well, I think the fact that you lost was probably beneficial for you," Georgia replied. "If you had won, it would have just increased the suspicion that you're here to replace us. Now we know that you have imperfections. And I don't think anyone believes you're a Freelancer or Agent Florida or something anymore. Some of those moves…" her voice trailed off and she chuckled. "Well, I don't mean to be rude, but…"

"Yeah, I know they were clumsy," I replied, shrugging. "I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the most graceful fighter. And, honestly, if you all like me better for it, then I'm willing to accept defeat."

"But, you know, it was also a good thing you had a fighting chance to win," Georgia added thoughtfully. "Carolina really is a jerk sometimes. She's so pretentious. I was glad you got to kick her butt a couple times."

"I guess you're not the only one who was excited about that," I said, turning off the water and wrapping myself in a towel. I stepped out of the shower and approached the Florida locker, opening it to grab my armor.

Georgia nodded. "I think a lot of us are glad you could show her a thing or two. Seriously. I mean, she is an excellent soldier, but she flaunts it." Georgia's face shone with an uncharacteristic sheen of bitterness. "She deserved everything you gave her."

Suddenly, just as I finished changing into my armor, my radio beeped loudly.

I looked apologetically at Georgia, but she shook her head and smiled. "Don't worry," she said. "I was just going to go lift some weights anyway. I'll catch you later."

We both left the locker room and I made my way to my bedroom, clicking the radio on as I walked.

"Agent Eleven here."

"Eleven!" Hale said sharply into my radio. _Oh, shit._ "You had better have an amazing explanation for this!"

I gulped nervously. "Sir, I was just invited to undergo a normal training exercise, and I accepted."

"Dammit, Eleven!" Hale yelled. "You are not here to play silly games with the Director's recruits!"

"We were just training—"

"Eleven, do you understand what your recklessness could have caused?" Hale interrupted. "Do you not comprehend the implications of your stupid and childish decision?"

I was silent, waiting for him to answer.

"Listen, Agent," Hale continued angrily. "Maybe you don't appreciate the delicacy of our position here. If you had gotten injured, you would have ruined the entire mission, do you realize that? You would have had to pull out, and we haven't found out anything about the Director yet. Nothing. _You are the one conducting all the inside reconnaissance work here, Eleven!_ I'm the higher rank—only the distraction! You put yourself—and, by extension, this entire mission—in peril!

"And then, what if you had injured Carolina? The Director is already secretive of his plans, and that would have gotten us kicked out of the Freelancer facility in an instant! Injuring one of his best soldiers would not have helped our relations with Dr. Church!"

"Well…" I said quietly. I was pressing my luck. "No one _was_ injured…?"

"And that is the only reason why this mission still may not be a failure," Hale responded irritably. I had reached my room by this point and was pacing furiously around it.

I was silent. And embarrassed. Again. Angry tears even began forming at the edges of my eyes, but I gulped and banished them instantly. Arguing at this point would be futile.

"I'm sorry," I said as composedly as possible. "The decision was reckless."

Hale sighed heavily. His anger seemed to have been spent. "Eleven, you and I both know you're a good Agent. We just can't afford to press our luck here. I know I told you to interact and get on good terms with the rest of the Freelancers, but that was just a bit much. Besides, even though you didn't win, you may have made some enemies among the Freelancers that will be hard to overcome. The whole point here was to try to better your relations with them."

"I know, sir. I apologize. But… sir?" I asked, a thought occurring to me. "Speaking of bettering relations… is this something that worsens our reputation in the eyes of the Director?"

"Luckily for you, since no one was injured, no," Hale replied. "I brought it up casually today, and he just responded lazily that the training sessions happen all the time, and that it's no surprise that Carolina won. He wasn't interested in it at all. So, fortunately for you, the Director isn't the problem here. But I don't like the fact that you brought attention to yourself at all, Eleven. You were _supposed _to stay inconspicuous."

"I… I know, sir. I'm sorry."

"Yes. _Now_ you do, at least," Hale said. "All right. Moving forward. If you're done acting like a child, we have serious work to do. Continue to submit your Freelancer observations to the Director. Keep a low profile. Gain the Freelancer's trust to find out more about what the Director is planning. These are orders."

"Yes, sir."

"And, Eleven? Do not put this mission in jeopardy again, do you hear me? _Do not let your emotions get in the way of your job."_


	10. Clubbing, Part I

After listening to some last-minute berating from Hale, I clicked my radio off and left my room. It was time for dinner. As I was just leaving, a soldier exited his room at the same time from just down the hall. He saw me and walked over.

"Hey, Eleven."

"Hi, Washington. I see you're a fast learner."

The soldier raised his eyebrows questioningly. "What do you mean?"

"You learned my name," I replied, grinning.

Washington smiled. "That wasn't what I was talking about back at the gym. Do you have a name that's _not _a number?"

I rolled my eyes. "No, of course not. Because UNSC codenames _always _match the birth certificates."

He laughed. "Sassy, are we? Fine. What's your real name then? Or am I going to have to assume your mom was a mathematician or something?"

"Assume all you want, because that's just something I can't reveal."

"Why not?"

"Four letter: U-N-S-C. You know what that stands for, or do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Very funny."

"Come on, don't you have all this secrecy too?" I asked, smirking. "You weren't really named after one of the states. And you probably can't reveal that either."

"Want to bet?" Washington asked. We stopped walking down the hallway and he faced me, holding out a hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm David."

"And I'm _Eleven,_" I responded emphatically, shaking his hand as well. "You really don't understand what it means to be a secret agent, do you?"

"Guess not. But all that secrecy stuff doesn't matter to me anyway," Washington shrugged as we continued walking toward the mess hall. "I hope you realize that now I'm just going to have to figure out another name for you. I can't just call you by a number."

"Oh?"

"Or, better yet, I'll figure out your real name."

"Bring it on, _David._"

Washington laughed. "I will. Don't you worry about that. But I meant to tell you earlier, so before I forget—nice moves today."

"Oh, thanks," I said, smiling. "I didn't know you were watching."

"Whenever there's an impromptu spar, it's always nice to take a look. I've gotta say, you handed Carolina's ass to her a couple times."

I shrugged. "Yeah, but I ended up losing in the end…"

"Well, you can't win them all. You've got potential."

I smiled. "Well, thanks. That's nice of you."

"Don't mention it."

That night, at dinner, the atmosphere in the mess hall had changed somewhat. The Freelancers seemed satisfied with me. I had not embarrassed all of them by losing to one of the best recruits, but I wasn't a sissy. I was clumsy enough to show that I wasn't the stuff of a Freelancer, but I still had shown Carolina a thing or two.

More of the Freelancers talked to me that night than ever before. When Washington and I had gotten our food, we both sat down next to Georgia and her three friends, but instead of receiving the suspicious looks I did before, many more of the Freelancers came over to talk to me.

I was flattered. If losing meant that I'd actually be accepted around here—and not taken for some sort of Agent Florida—I was perfectly happy with that.

However, of course—as I had expected—Carolina didn't speak to me at all. I received multiple dirty looks from her and a few of the Freelancers surrounding her as the others continued talking and joking around with me, but I didn't care anymore. She had won the physical fight, but I was victorious mentally. She and I both knew it.

* * *

><p>The Freelancers grew used to my continual presence. I was around them a lot more than I had originally thought I'd be—when I wasn't with them during a meal, I'd be tagging along for their training sessions or seminars. When they weren't training, I came along with them to the gym. I always felt intimidated actually working out next to the Freelancers, but I didn't let myself show it; instead, I chatted and laughed along with them.<p>

I was seldom called Agent Florida or verbally attacked for being so close to the Freelancers. Granted, I got my fair share of good-natured teasing for being from the UNSC, but I didn't mind. It was endearing. Of course, the Freelancers had no idea that I was helping the Director rank them—they just thought I was collecting information mostly for the UNSC's information bank. They knew that the Director was looking at the reviews of their training, but they didn't seem to think much of it. They assumed it was just standard procedure.

I felt guilty not being able to tell them what was really going on. When the Director finally released his ranking list, I knew they would not be happy… and I knew they would not be happy with _me_. They knew that I was the one passing information to the Director. They just didn't know why.

I hoped that day wouldn't come soon. During their training sessions, normally, I sat quietly to the sides with my clipboard in hand, taking notes on the proceedings.

I tracked their skills effortlessly. Some were better at stealth, some at skill, some at strength. They all seemed to be at the top of their game to me; I still had no idea how the Director would distinguish one from another. So, technically, I had nothing to do with the rankings themselves. I was just submitting subjective observations of what I saw. I personally was unable to comprehend how (or why) the Director would order them from best to worst.

* * *

><p>One night, after a particularly grueling training session, I was sitting in my room when I heard some sort of commotion coming from the hall. Before I could get up and have a look at what was happening, I heard a quick knock at my door. I got up, opened it, and was face-to-face with Del. It was the first time I had seen him without any armor.<p>

"Eleven, you want to come with us?"

I peeked out into the hallway. The Freelancers were filing out of the bedrooms quietly, silently laughing and nudging each other playfully. None was dressed in armor.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"We're going to the club!" Bama appeared. She was wearing a tank top and short skirt in the same color as her armor and was even wearing a little bit of jewelry.

"Wha—there's a club around here?" I stammered. "And you're _going?"_

"Come on, hurry up and get changed!" Bama complained. Georgia appeared behind her and was wearing a cute dress that also matched the color of her armor. "We're going to be late!"


	11. Clubbing, Part II

I told them to give me two minutes. Not knowing exactly what I was getting myself into, I threw on a little blue dress I had thankfully decided to bring and met them in the hallway. We followed the pack of quietly excited Freelancers as they headed to a different—and, I guessed, completely restricted—area of the facility.

We snuck to the right level without incident, and the Freelancers crept in groups of four or five down the dark hallway toward a window at the end. It was open, and the Freelancers were escaping from the building through the now-open glass.

"Aren't all the windows locked with passwords and stuff?" I asked quietly, still rather perplexed. "I thought that—"

"Shh!" Wes hissed as we made our way to the window. "We'll explain everything later. Just go!"

We reached the window, and, though I hesitated, Georgia leaned toward me. "Come on, Eleven," she said, tugging at my arm. "This is the best part of being a Freelancer!"

One after one, the Freelancers snuck out of the building and tumbled down into the grass outside.

For some reason, no alarms went off. No sirens. We were escaping the Freelancer facility much more easily than we should have been.

I followed the large group to the back parking lot of the facility. There stood multiple white vans, completely unmarked.

I didn't ask questions and followed Del inside one of the cars. Soon, all forty-something of us had piled into the scattered vehicles. York took the wheel of ours and pulled quickly out of the parking lot, screeching the tires a bit as he did so. I laughed, squished beside Wyoming and Georgia.

"Okay, seriously," I said as we left the Freelancer facility behind. "Am I going to get fired for this?"

York shrugged from the drivers' seat. "Well, none of us has yet."

"Yeah, I mean, we do this like every month. If we were going to get in trouble, we would have already," Wes added.

"You pull this off every _month?_" I yelped. "But… how? Getting past security, the vans…"

"It's one of the advantages to being a super-solder," York smirked. Carolina sat in the passenger seat and hadn't said a word; she glared at York every time he spoke to me.

"It's certainly a plus having a professional lock-picker on this team," Wyoming commented. "York gets past all the facility's security. He disables the security system and the windows' locks, so it's bloody easy for us to get out."

York laughed. "All in a day's work, Wyoming."

"And the vans?" I asked them. "They don't belong to you, obviously."

Wes smirked. "Well, Maine is quite good at the whole 'intimidating-a-staff-member-and-getting-what-he-wants' thing. They're all scared shitless of him. He just needs to lift a finger and they'll do whatever he says. So we get to use their vans."

I admitted it. I was impressed. I hadn't been on a night out in far too long.

* * *

><p>Inside the club, Wes, Georgia, Del, Bama and I occupied a table and ordered a round of drinks. I was still in shock that we hadn't gotten beaten to death for sneaking out.<p>

"I can't believe you guys do this all the time," I said, shaking my head as I took my drink from the waiter.

"Oh, I'm sure the Director knows we sneak off every once in a while," Bama said casually, sipping a martini. "But what's he gonna do?"

"He could kick us all out, of course," Del cut in, swigging a beer.

"What, and start all over again?" Bama laughed. "I doubt it. He's worked too hard on us to begin again now."

I shrugged. "Yeah, well, lucky you. I, unfortunately, could get fired for this."

"Aw, come on, Eleven," Del sniggered. "Isn't this what being a recon agent is all about? Sneaking around and shit?"

I raised an eyebrow and smirked. "I guess you could say that. But, damn, Carolina definitely looked like she wanted to rat me out on the way here."

"That was hilarious!" Bama said. "She doesn't like you already, and to top it off, you were chatting it up with York!"

"What does York have to do with it?" I asked, frowning.

The others all laughed loudly. "They're _together,_ Eleven."

"Seriously?" I stuttered. "Wait, wait, wait… how does that even work here? I thought relationships were against the rules."

Bama shrugged. "It happens often enough. York and Carolina, Penn and Jersey, Kansas and Kentucky…"

Delaware made a quick glance at Georgia.

"Relationships come and go, just like normal," Bama continued. "They're pretty secret, I think, except to the Freelancers. Which is a pretty damn big group… But it doesn't work like that most of the time." She grinned. "Most of us like to just fool around."

"Still!" I said, gaping at her. "How do you pull it off? You can't be allowed. There's just no way."

"As long as we're not stupid about it, it's pretty easy," she shrugged. "I mean, we all live in the same hall. Sneaking around at night isn't hard."

"Does the Director know about this? Or about the other relationships?"

"Hell no!" Wes cut in. "At least… if he does, he isn't showing it…"

I had a feeling the Director knew more or less everything that happened around here. I had no doubt that he was aware of _these_ little outings. If he turned a blind eye to the partying, I was sure he wouldn't say anything about the relationships. They weren't allowed, to be sure, but he didn't want to get rid of his Project members.

However, this did explain why I heard people sneaking around the halls at night. Or why rhythmic rocking sometimes sounded from the bedrooms.

"Come on, let's dance," Georgia giggled, gazing at the now-full dance floor. The music was blasting loudly and, from here, I could hardly make out one person from another.

I shook my head. "Uh… I don't think so," I said, but she dragged me to the throng of people.

"Don't worry about anything right now!" Georgia squealed. She was definitely tipsy. "Just let yourself go!"

We all entered the dance floor. In the darkness, each person melded with the next. Within moments, I had lost Georgia and Del in the crowd. The black lights soon began to mesh with the flashing LEDs. The dry ice permeated the air and settled on our skin as a mix of condensation and sweat, and I was soon jumping up and down wildly with the rest of the crowd and alongside Bama.

What the hell. I could screw professionalism just this once.

The Freelancers all had had enough to drink not to care how they looked dancing. I danced as well, the mess of people up against each other everywhere. I laughed as a random clubber sneakily came up behind Bama and began "dancing" with her.

We continued for a while until I felt a sudden presence behind me. Someone had come up from behind—much like Bama's partner—and attempted to dance with me. As I craned my head around to look, I almost laughed out loud at the man's identity. It was Wyoming, of all people. I chuckled, allowing him to place his hands on my hips.

"Enjoying yourself, love?" he asked in my ear, very suave. I laughed, not falling for it. His breath reeked of whiskey.

"Yeah, I suppose," I replied, shrugging.

"Well, if you're tired, you and I could always steal a van and head back to my room…" he said. I gasped. His hands started creeping upwards, and I suddenly had a very bad feeling they weren't planning on stopping anytime soon. "Or, I suppose," he continued. "We needn't even go that far. Vans can be rather cozy as well…"


	12. Clubbing, Part III

_Yeah. No damn way._

As I attempted to remove myself from Wyoming's presence, another group of drunkards on the floor crashed into me and the Brit, forcing us apart. I was shoved forward and fell flat on the ground, scattering another group of people in front of me. A sharp stab of pain shot through my wrist, and I gasped. I had fallen on the joint and was now twisting it around. Shit. It would be sore in the morning.

I needed ice. I immediately headed toward the bar and took a seat next to Washington, who was waving at the retreating figures of Connecticut and Maine as they disappeared onto the dance floor.

"Hey, Washington," I said as the bartender handed me ice wrapped in a towel. Washington swiveled his chair to look at me, wearing a gray polo with a yellow logo.

"Are you all right?" he asked, noting the ice.

I nodded while continuing to examine my wrist, experimenting and twisting it around. Ouch.

"Of course. No big deal. Have you been having a good time?"

"What?"

He couldn't hear me over the noise. I reached up and leaned into his ear.

"Have you been having fun?" I asked again.

He spoke into my ear as well. "Yeah, sure. It's pretty much the same every time we come. Everyone gets shitfaced and dances until they can't stand."

"Sounds like a nice break from the military to me."

"It is until you get knocked over by some assholes. Are you sure your wrist is okay?"

I stopped twisting it around, but it still hurt a little.

"It's all right, I think."

"Here, let me take a look."

He grabbed one hand and looked closely at my wrist. I frowned slightly, but it was mostly in amusement. The Freelancers really let themselves go when off duty. It must have been the stress of military life.

"Uh, Washington," I said to him, grinning. "Wrong wrist."

We chuckled and I switched hands. He gripped my wrist gently but firmly, inspecting it before placing the bag of ice evenly around it, concentrating on the task much more than he should have been. I smirked. Definitely drunk.

"It's just bruised. I guess the dance floor is a dangerous place for you UNSC Agents," Washington teased as he finished positioning the ice bag.

"Oh, shut up," I laughed. "You know as well as I do that I can handle anything."

He shrugged. "No, no… you still have yet to prove yourself."

"What?" I gasped, laughing. "I fought Carolina already!"

"Yeah, but I only _watched_ that fight. Technically, I can't judge for myself by just seeing it go down."

"So… what's your solution to that?"

"Well, I'm going to have to battle you myself."

I rolled my eyes. "Seriously? Am I just going to be challenged by the rest of the Freelancers until I'm beaten to a pulp?"

"Well, you don't have to." He stretched ostentatiously, but a smile played on his lips. "I know I can be _quite _intimidating."

I stifled a snort of laughter. "All right, whatever you say, Washington." The bartender came up to us and asked us if we wanted anything. "Do you want to order a drink?"

Washington shook his head. "No, that's all right. You go ahead. Someone around here has to stay sober and make sure no one does anything too stupid."

I ordered nothing. As the bartender walked off, I stared at Washington. He wasn't drunk?

"That's _your_ job?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged. "Well, I don't know. Sneaking out always makes me a little nervous. It's way out of line. If the Director found out we were breaking the rules like this…" he trailed off.

"If you don't like breaking the rules, why do you go out with everyone then?"

"Believe me, it's not an easy decision. But training day after day really gets to you after a while. Even if it's not allowed… sometimes you just have to… escape for a while." He looked away.

I watched him closely. "Escape?"

He shrugged again. "Being a Freelancer isn't an easy life. All it is? Competition. Fighting. Training. I feel like, when we're at the facility, we're forced to be at each other's throats all the time. Here, when we let go, we're more like a team than we ever are during the day."

"That makes sense," I said quietly. "When you have people like Carolina up your ass all the time, that probably makes your job harder."

Washington nodded. "Anyway, that's why I don't get shitfaced, but I still come. I'll only get tanked every once in a while—like after a really hard training session. I just want to freaking block _those_ out of my memory."

I laughed. "Let me guess… straight vodka?"

Washington flashed a smile. "Nah, it takes a good tequila to temporarily forget the training. I save the vodka for _very special_ occasions."

"Such as…?" I said, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, when—"

"Hey, Wash!" Another Freelancer called, ambling over to us. York. "Come on, man, what are you doing sitting here? I'm gonna order another round of beers. You want one? What about you, Miss Agent Eleven? You're lookin' great tonight."

"York, you've had enough tonight for the both of us," Washington replied as I chuckled. "Who do you think is dragging your sorry ass home when we're done here?"

"The hell are you talking about? I'm perfectly capable!" York insisted, his eyes a little out of focus. "I can pick locks, so I can drive too!"

"Right," Washington replied, looking over at me. "See what I mean? Without someone around here not getting completely drunk, we'd all be screwed."

I looked behind York and saw a ginger figure wearing pale blue approaching us. A frown spread across her face as she realized who York was talking to, and I sighed. Great.

"Enjoying yourself, Wash?" she asked, irritated, her eyes on me.

Washington glanced at me. "Yeah, I am, Carolina. Got some good company."

"Then keep it to yourself," she said shortly, pulling York away from us. He seemed oblivious to what was happening and followed her, a lopsided grin on his face.

Washington watched them leave, an eyebrow raised. When they had melded into the crowd, he sighed.

"Another reason I like coming on these outings is because I like hanging out with my friends… when they're not with their girlfriends."

I glanced back at the pair. "Carolina really despises me. She doesn't want York even looking in my direction."

Washington rolled his eyes. "Don't worry about it. She's going to hate you no matter what you do."

"Especially because York doesn't seem to realize—or care—that she doesn't like him talking to me. At least he went along with her when she dragged him away."

Washington nodded with a somewhat disapproving look. "Yeah… I can't believe he's going through with that, anyway. It's _completely _against protocol."

Jesus. This guy certainly had a conscience. "Yeah, and it's also _Carolina_."

"I definitely don't approve. They're going to get caught for sure. The Director would throw a damn tantrum if he found out some of his best recruits were messing around behind his back."

I grinned. "Aw, come on, Washington, but Carolina's such a catch! She's so sweet and gentle!"

Washington snorted. "You mean the same way a piranha's sweet and gentle?"

"What," I asked as we chuckled. "So you haven't made your rounds with the female Freelancers too?"

"There's no way I'm going to jeopardize my job like that. It would take one hell of a girl to put me in that position." He laughed again. "I'll never be as whipped as York anyway."


	13. Clubbing, Part IV

Washington and I sat at the bar and talked as the evening passed. We kept an inconspicuously close watch on the other Freelancers, commenting cheekily on their silly drunk antics and generally laughing at them as long as they weren't doing anything incredibly stupid.

For some ungodly reason, however, Maine had hidden a pistol in his street clothing and almost pulled it on a civilian after they got into an argument. Washington seemed to recognize Maine's warning signs; he left me wordlessly to cross the bar in an instant.

I followed him to where the oversized Freelancer stood, his hand at his belt as he glared at the civilian.

"Come on, buddy," Washington said to him, tugging at his shoulder. "It's not worth it."

"You'd better watch yourself," a very inebriated Maine growled at the civilian, who seemed to realize that he was picking a fight with someone twice his size. He crumbled under the soldier's stare and stumbled away nervously, tripping in his efforts to put space between himself and the Freelancer.

"You may have had even more to drink than York," Washington said rather amusedly, plucking the pistol from Maine.

The Freelancers soon began to realize how late—or, rather, how early—it was, and began collecting each other to head back to the vans. Soon after his argument, Maine had collapsed at a nearby table (nearly breaking one of the chairs), snoring loudly. It took three other Freelancers to support him back to the car. I wondered how many shots it took to get him that drunk… and who took care of the bill.

Meanwhile, the other soldiers headed back to the cars as well. North was consoling a cranky and violent-looking South, while Bama and Georgia were giggling hysterically about something. Delaware looked dazed; it was a wonder he made it back to the vans at all. York yelled loudly in the parking lot about how gorgeous "his girlfriend" was; Carolina tried to look disapproving as she guided him back to the vans, but I saw a smile creep across her face.

Once North, Carolina and Washington—the less drunk of the Freelancers—counted no one missing and made sure that all the designated drivers weren't inebriated, they separated into different vans to drive back to the facility. I took the passenger seat of the car that Washington drove and looked at the seats behind me. Colorado, Utah and—to my dismay—Wyoming were all chatting in the far back. I turned my head quickly, but not before seeing Connecticut and Maine in the two seats directly behind Washington and I. Connecticut was curled up in her chair, fast asleep, while Maine was sprawled out, his snores resonating through the vehicle.

I turned back around as Washington began the drive back to the facility.

"You really calmed Maine down back there," I commented. "I thought he was going to beat that guy senseless."

"He probably would have," Washington said unconcernedly. "But I can usually talk some sense into him."

I glanced back at the sleeping soldier. "One of your good friends, then?"

He nodded. "Me and Maine and York. North too. We're a team. They've got my back and I've got theirs."

"Especially when they're shit-drunk, apparently."

"Exactly," Washington chuckled.

When we reached the facility, I helped Washington support Maine as we made our way to the bedrooms. After we deposited the white-clad soldier on his bed, we exited his room, panting slightly. We looked at each other and grinned.

"Took the two of us to carry him," I said, smiling. "Guess I'm not as weak as you think."

Washington raised an eyebrow. "I'm still going to have to determine that myself, I think."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine, Washington. I'll see you…" I checked the time and grimaced. "I'll see you in a couple hours, I guess." Damn. We were really out late.

He yawned widely as the rest of the Freelancers retired to their rooms.

"G'night, Eleven," he said. He turned to leave to his room, but then hesitated and looked back at me with a smile. "Oh… and call me Wash."

* * *

><p>Only a few hours later, I dragged myself out of bed and forced myself to get ready for another day of training. I skipped breakfast because I was running late and skidded into the viewing area of the training room just in time for the session to begin. The Freelancers were already stretching and throwing practice punches into the air; I wondered how their performance would be affected by a night of drinking.<p>

When they began, I was shocked. Their movements were only the tiniest bit slower than usual, their reflexes only marginally less accurate. Even in their hung-over state, they still could have kicked ass in the battlefield. If I hadn't been watching them for such a long time before this, I wouldn't have noticed that anything was amiss at all.

Their trainer, however, pushed them harder than ever. I was pretty sure she knew exactly what had happened the night before—and, I guessed, in the months before—because she said nothing about their slightly worse performance. She simply made the repetitions faster, harder, and more frequent.

That evening, after dinner, I was a little behind in turning my paperwork to the Director's drop box. I hurried to his office doors and placed my daily folder in there quickly, hearing muffled voices coming from within. I paused, recognizing the Director's characteristic tone; the other voice sounded familiar too.

Before I had time to leave the area, the Director's office door opened quickly and a pale blue soldier strode out, a smug smile on her face.

"Thank you, Director," Carolina said to her superior respectfully as she closed the door behind her. As it clicked shut, she saw me and the confident smile disappeared, replaced by an instant look of dislike.

"What are you doing here?" she asked rudely, putting her helmet back on.

"Delivering my analytics," I replied curtly, indicating the paperwork now in the drop box. "The Director doesn't hold private meetings for recruits. What were_ you_ just doing?"

That cocky smile. That hadn't been normal.

"Why do you care?"

"It's my responsibility to know what's going on around here."

"If the Director didn't think you needed to know, then you _obviously _didn't. When will you ever learn to mind your own business?"

"This is my job!" I retorted, now indicating the whole area. "Just accept that!"

"Oh, right," she said, walking away from the Director's office door. I could tell she was nervous about making a scene so close to him. I followed her down the hallway, matching my steps to her long strides. "Because getting in bed with all the Freelancers is part of the job description. I saw you and Wyoming."

"Nothing happened!" I snarled. "You know that, and so does everything else. We danced. That's it."

"Liar," she spat, growling. "I saw you with him. Then chatting it up with York."

"Are you deaf?" I asked severely. "What did I just tell you? We just talked. He was drunk anyway."

"And Wash? One of the designated drivers? Are you going to tell me he was tanked too?"

I snapped my mouth shut. "I didn't do a thing with him," I said quietly, my anger pounding through my head. "Nothing. You should be the one feeling guilty anyway. I could tell the Director about you and your precious boyfriend at any time. I wonder if you'll be his favorite then, hmm?"

"Do that, and what happened on the training room floor will seem like nothing compared to what I'll do."

I snarled in reply and we parted ways, storming down opposite ends of the hallway. She had been trying to change the subject. I could tell. She and the Director had been talking about something important.

I had every intention of finding out what that was.


	14. Girl Talk

"You're right. This is unsettling."

I had called a meeting with Hale in order to let him know what I had seen with Carolina.

"I've been with him for everything he's done," Hale continued, perplexed. "I've made it clear that I want to see how things are run."

"Well, now we know he's been completing tasks behind your back," I replied.

I needed to speak to someone about this observation. Someone who wasn't intimidated by Carolina's aggression—someone who'd be frank about her.

I knew exactly who that was.

After that brief meeting, I headed back toward my bedroom, but, instead of going to the Florida room, I stopped at the first bedroom in the hallway.

"Hey, Bama?" I called, raising my hand to knock at the door.

I didn't even need to knock—the door opened. Utah strode out of her room, a cocky grin spread across his face as he finished putting on some parts of his armor.

"Oh, hey, Eleven," he said as he saw me. "You here to see Bama?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Yeah…"

"Well, she's in quite a good mood," he grinned, stretching and walking down the hallway. "Night!"

I peered into the room to see Bama's hair all messed up as she clasped on her bra and threw a tank top over it. She heard me at the door and turned around.

"Oh, hey, Eleven!" she said.

"I—uh—" I stuttered, my face reddening a little. "Did I interrupt something?

Bama chuckled. "No, we had just finished up. He comes over every once in a while. He just can't get enough of me." She winked. "So, what's up? Did you come to talk about our fabulous bar night?"

I laughed in spite of myself. "You call that 'fabulous'?"

"You don't?" she asked. "Come on, it was fun. Admit it."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, getting hit on by drunk men, pissing Carolina off even more than I thought was possible, and carrying Maine all the way to his room were so enjoyable."

She laughed. "Hmm, I didn't hear about this. What happened?"

I sat down at her desk. "Wyoming was so drunk he found me and started dancing with me. It was only when I got nailed by a group of drunkards and fell on my wrist that he left me alone."

"Don't worry about Wyoming," she responded lazily. "He's the biggest ladies' man I've ever met in my life. Not a bad lay, though. Just brush him off and he'll lose interest. Move on to the next girl that catches his eye."

I smirked. "Hmm. I'll keep that in mind. Well, anyway, after that, I met up with Wash and we just kind of talked for a while. When York came over just to offer Wash a drink, Carolina saw and got even pissier than she'd been before."

"You should have pretended to hang all over Wash," Bama said, shrugging. "That would have dispelled any suspicions."

"Right," I said. "Because I need one more thing to be less professional about."

She chuckled. "So Carolina was pretty upset about your talking to York?"

"That's an understatement." I paused, rolling carefully to the next topic. "She even brought it up when I saw her just now over at the high security levels."

Bama glanced sharply at me. "High security? What was she doing over there?"

I leaned back in her desk chair. "That was something I was hoping you could tell me. I saw her coming out of the Director's office, of all places. You know anything about that?"

Bama frowned. "No. I don't know what it's about at all."

"It was a private meeting too," I continued. "She was the only Freelancer there."

"I have no idea what's going on, but my guess is that she's trying to get on his good side. I wouldn't be surprised if she's playing teacher's pet."

"Is that so?" I asked.

She nodded. "I mean, look at us. Close to fifty soldiers all pitted against each other every day. With eyes watching our every move. We know the Director likes some of us more than others… Carolina's bound to be a kiss-ass."

After a few more comments, we said our good nights and I went back to my own room, collapsing on the bed.

I hadn't gotten anywhere. All this information was just leading me in circles. The other Freelancers were obviously not in on Carolina's special meeting. I had a feeling that the only soldier she might tell was York, but I knew I wouldn't be able to talk to him by himself. Carolina Freelancer would intervene, and York would definitely stay loyal to her.

The Freelancers would be no help in this situation. I had to think of something else.

* * *

><p>I grew increasingly suspicious of Carolina after that night. She seemed to be in an unusually good mood. During training, her skills had never been better as she showed off.<p>

I tried to catch the Director and Carolina again, but, at the end of each day, when I'd turn in my reports, I couldn't hear her characteristic voice through the doors like I had before. Perhaps I was being paranoid, but, if they were still having private meetings, it seemed like they made sure not to have them during the times that I delivered my paperwork. I tried to vary the times I delivered the papers, but I couldn't diverge from my normal timing too much. The Director had told me to give him the work immediately after training, and deviating from that would either raise his suspicions or cause his temper to flare. I couldn't afford to cross any lines with him.

My work was getting intense. I had no time to formulate a good plan regarding Carolina. The Director kept asking for more detailed reports by the day, so I remained swamped in paperwork. One thing was odd, though. He never commented on these reports. He simply asked for more. More information. How high the Freelancers jumped, how fast their punches were thrown, their exact statistics when it came to fighting. I was growing worried. I had a terrible feeling that, thanks to my reports, his system would soon be set up to rank the soldiers in order.

I was secretly dreading that day. They would all find out the reason that I was brought here—not for the UNSC's classified data collection, but to help _rank_ them. However, what could I do? If I stopped, the Director would have me dismissed from the job and the mission would fail.

That was not an option.


	15. Guy Talk

The workload the Director demanded of me continued to press upon my free time. Part of me wondered if Dr. Church did this on purpose—if he tried to keep me from coming closer to the Freelancers or snooping around. I tried not to be mistrustful, but as the requests for tactical information kept pouring in, I couldn't help but wonder. Was he getting closer to his goal, or was he getting suspicious?

I sat in the gym, my workout clothes on but a clipboard in hand. I was waiting for the others to arrive from training. The Director had requested me to start watching some of their out-of-training behaviors now, as well. That worried me, but, of course, I didn't question him.

I used a few of the weights as the Freelancers slowly piled in. They had just finished some sort of robotics seminar. I hadn't been invited.

"How was it?" I asked Bama casually as she sat beside me and picked up some weights.

She shrugged. "Just shit about new technology and armor modifications and stuff. Nothing really important. I doubt we'd actually get upgrades anyway. Sounds too expensive."

I tried to press more on the topic, but she really was thoroughly uninterested. I decided not to keep bothering her about it.

"What's the clipboard for?" she asked, catching a glimpse of the tablet beside me. "Are you seriously keeping tabs on us right now?"

I nodded, rolling my eyes. "Those are new orders. I have to watch you guys in here, too, sometimes."

"Jesus, your UNSC records seriously need to be extensive," she responded.

I didn't say anything, but just nodded my head. I was sure these performance reviews would end up in the UNSC databases _eventually_…

"What do you have to take a look at right now?" Bama asked as more Freelancers entered the gym.

I looked down at my papers. "Close-range stuff. Wrestling."

"Looks like you have exactly what you came for," she responded, looking through one of the workout room's doorways. I peered through and saw a couple of soldiers getting ready to spar. Sighing, I stood up and left Bama, entering the side room. The walls were lined with a few benches and a large mat lay across the middle of the room. I approached the soldiers preparing to spar—one in white and one in gray and yellow—and sat down on a bench near them.

"Hey, Eleven," Wash said, seeing me as he and Maine put padded protection around their heads and fists. "What are you—wait, seriously? You have to take notes on this too?"

I nodded apologetically. "Believe me, the last thing I want to be doing is watching you clowns roll around on the floor."

Maine growled in mild irritation but Wash smirked.

"You ready, or what?" Maine muttered.

Wash nodded and they walked on the mat, facing each other and tensing up as Maine gave the go-ahead to start. They circled the mat slowly before rushing at each other and falling to the floor.

I watched them carefully, taking notes. Their Jiu Jitsu techniques really revealed their grappling skills—they had decided to take the more precise and lethal form of wrestling rather than just going at each other brutishly.

Obviously, Maine was superior in terms of strength. I already knew that from regular training. I also knew that Wash's reflexes and aim were top-notch. However, for some reason, Wash was doing much poorly here than he did in training.

Maine beat him soundly in the first bout. After they got up, panting heavily, Maine whispered something to Wash and the gray-clad soldier returned his remark with a red face and an irritated snarl.

Wash overpowered Maine pretty quickly during the next round. His annoyance must have served as an adrenaline rush. Maine rubbed his neck in soreness after they had finished, chuckling softly.

As the fighting continued, I noted they were relatively evenly matched. However, by the end, Maine won by just one point, and they separated from each other, panting heavily.

"Nice going there, bud," Wash said as they stood up. They shook hands, stretching out their sore spots. Maine grumbled something about going to lift some more weights and left the room. I stood up, about to follow him out and organizing my notes.

"Hey, I think it's your turn."

I stopped and turned to face Wash, who hadn't made any movement to leave the room. I blinked.

"You can't just sit around and watch us all day. Come on," he continued, patting the mat.

Placing my clipboard on one of the benches, I walked toward him tentatively. "…You're serious, aren't you?"

He smiled and waited for me on the mat as I put on some pads. "I guess we'll see how your skills match up," he replied. This was… probably not a good idea, but I brushed that from my mind.

"Ready?" he asked, a half-smile playing on his face.

"As ready as I can be."

He gave the go-ahead, and we knelt down, facing each other.

We grabbed each other's collars and glared at each other intently, waiting for the right moment to strike. I scooted closer to him, attempting to shove him off balance and allow me to gain a dominant position, but he recognized the move and shifted his weight, stopping me from carrying out my plan.

"Good with body language, I see," I muttered, clenching my teeth.

Wash struggled against me but let out a laugh. "Naturally."

I made another attempt to throw him off balance, but he saw me tense up and shoved me to my back jarringly. As I fell backward, however, I didn't let go of his collar and used my legs to shove him over my head and onto his back, switching our positions. I was now on top.

Before Wash could react, I scrambled to the side and positioned myself properly in dominant side control, placing my weight on his chest.

"Damn it," Wash muttered, struggling to take full breaths. I sniggered a bit as I reveled momentarily in my success. Side control was almost impossible to escape from.

"Come on, I thought you said you could handle it," I taunted, struggling to stay in control. After grappling further for a while—almost losing my position twice—I managed to get a hold of his arm. I breathed hard and bent his arm against the elbow joint gently, only pulling enough to make his arm uncomfortable. He tapped out in submission, knowing that if I kept going, he might end up with a broken elbow.

Panting heavily, we shook hands and smiled.

"Not so weak after all, huh?" I asked cheekily, though my victory surprised me.

He nodded. "Why don't we go one more round?"

"One more?"

"Just one."

"Fine then. Let's go."

We began a second round, and this one lasted even longer than the first. We took turns gaining the controlling positions, but I seemed to be able to worm my way out of the submissive position before he could force me to tap out. Finally, however, with a powerful shove, Wash landed on top of me. I cursed under my breath and gripped his collar tightly, attempting to heave him to the side. I was quite fatigued at this point, however, and Wash's energy still seemed to be pumping. Stupid super-soldiers.

He smiled and I growled, both knowing full well that I wasn't getting out of this one.

"Any last words?" he asked lightly, crossing his arms and placing his wrists and forearms on my neck.

"Oh… fuck you," I muttered, my breathing becoming more labored as I fought against his arms.

He chuckled softly. "How poetic."

With that, he squeezed slightly on my carotid arteries, and I began seeing stars. I tapped out instantly. A few more seconds of that and I would have passed out.

Wash rolled off me and we shook hands again, grinning.

"You're neck's all right?" he asked.

"Of course."

He smirked. "Not bad… for the UNSC."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I said. He stood up and held a hand out to me; I took it and rose to my feet as well. After grabbing my clipboard, we talked for a bit in the training room before I caught Bama's eye. She was about to head to the showers, and I realized I must have smelled really horrible.

I decided to excuse myself from Wash so I could clean up. After saying goodbye, I left and followed Bama into the locker room.

The Freelancer was already in the shower when I entered.

"Hey, Bama," I called out.

"Eleven," Bama laughed from the other side of the shower curtain. "I thought you were supposed to be taking notes—not participating in the action!"

"I was! Maine and Wash grappled for a while before Maine left, and then Wash wanted to see how I matched up!"

"Is that so? Well you two seemed to be enjoying yourselves."

"Yes," I responded flatly, but not without a slight smile. "Enjoying beating the shit out of each other. That's always pleasant."

"Whatever, girl. I'm just telling you what I was noticing."

"And what exactly were you _noticing_?"

She laughed again. "I don't know, Eleven, you just seemed to like some of those… positions."

"Oh, for the love of God," I rolled my eyes. "You Freelancers always have your heads in the gutter."

"And we're proud of it," she responded haughtily. "Now, tell me… _were_ you enjoying it?"

My face reddened. "Of course not!" I huffed. "I actually have an ounce of _professionalism_ around here!"


	16. Moving Day, Part I

"Eleven, I need you in my office. Now."

The urgency in Hale's voice startled me. The day's training had just finished and I was setting my final notes in order, preparing to deliver them to the Director.

"Is something wrong, sir?"

"Just come immediately."

I left the Freelancers and made my way to Hale's temporary office, letting myself in after knocking. When I saw him, his face looked pale and anxious.

"What's going on?" I asked, my brow creasing.

"The Director. His plans have changed. He's moving the entire operation."

"What do you mean?"

Hale checked that the door was locked before continuing. "He's taking the entirety of Project Freelancer from this facility, Eleven. He's moving it to a ship. He's transferring the program to his vessel, the _Mother of Invention_."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I think he's getting closer to his plans regarding his rankings of the soldiers. I think he might want to start putting the Freelancers into action—giving them real missions—once the rankings are revealed."

I took a deep breath. "Okay. This isn't anything we can't handle. I'll just try to make sure that our living quarters are the same—that you're near Dr. Church and I'm with the Freelancers—"

"Eleven," Hale interrupted. "…I'm not going."

I froze. "Wh—what?"

Hale sighed in frustration. "The Director informed me that my 'services are no longer needed.'"

"What is that supposed to mean?" I demanded.

"Think about it, Eleven. My time here has been purely observation and distraction to the Director so that we can both figure out what's really going on in the project. He's getting suspicious, and we can't force him to let us stay. That would be illegal."

"So—so that's it, then? That's the end of the mission? We just back out and never find out what the Director's really doing?"

Hale shook his head. "Eleven. The Director wants me gone." He paused, gazing at me intently. "_Only me_."

My mouth fell open in surprise. "He… he wants me to go with them?"

"Just you."

"That doesn't make any sense!"

"Yes, it does." Hale sighed in frustration. "You have been helping him, Eleven. You have been obeying his every order. To him, you're a mindless intern, but a _useful_ mindless intern. He needs you to help complete his ranking system, and after that's set up, he'll still need you to help supplement the system and give him further reviews. _He needs you_, Eleven. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, he does. I've been following him around like a shadow. Don't you think he'd get annoyed of that sooner or later? Suspicious? You've been helpful to him in many ways, and he isn't about to lose you now, especially when he thinks you don't pose a threat to his secrecy."

"Oh…" I tried to keep my breathing steady. "I… I don't know if I can do this."

"You don't think so?" Hale asked dryly. "You've been carrying this entire mission on your shoulders, Eleven. Haven't you realized that? You've been doing all the work, because if I had hired anyone more experienced, the Director would have kicked us out in suspicion a long time ago. You've been handling everything yourself already. What makes you think you can't do this?"

"You've been here this whole time!" I said back to him. "Always here for help or support or anything! I won't have that if you leave!"

"We'll have our radio communication, at the very least," he responded with a resigned sigh. "That's the best we can do. Eleven, I know this isn't what we planned. We thought that this mission might last a few weeks at most, but things are changing. This move to the _Mother of Invention_ will allow the Director and his plans to be much more mobile and versatile, allowing him to change what he wants to do at a moment's notice. He can vary the missions or training exercises he puts the Freelancers through. His ship is basically a portable facility, and there's nothing we can do to stop him."

"Nothing?" I asked, almost pleading. "At all?"

"He hasn't done anything illegal that we know of, Agent. This is why we're here to begin with. Until we have further proof of his wrongdoing, then he can do whatever he pleases."

I pressed a finger to my temple and took a deep breath. "I don't understand why there isn't some sort of UNSC committee looking over Project Freelancer already if it's so suspicious. We need backup."

"Eleven, if it were that easy to implement 'some sort of committee,' you and I wouldn't be here in the first place. Do you know how an Oversight Subcommittee is formed? Formal requests have to be submitted to the UNSC. Then the requests have to go to the Oversight Committee. The Oversight Committee then has to approve of a Subcommittee being formed to investigate further. After _that_, the Committee has to track down, interview, recruit, and train specialists to be part of the group. It can take months to form an Oversight Subcommittee, and no one has felt the need to watch the Director yet. He's a very trusted and well-respected man in his field.

"The point is that the UNSC is a terrible bureaucracy, Eleven. That's why the temporary solution—the UNSC reconnaissance division—is being used for immediate action. I knew that this project needed to be investigated as soon as possible, and I couldn't afford to waste time trying to form a Subcommittee.

"However, things are changing. This move has increased suspicions of the Director—it's very odd for the entirety of such a large project to suddenly pick up and move. As soon as I am back at HQ, I will begin the request to create the Oversight Subcommittee. As I said, it may take a long time to form—sometimes the UNSC is incredibly inefficient—but I believe now is the time to begin coordinating a group. If the Director's actions prove to be as suspicious as they seem, then we will need the Oversight Subcommittee in order to make it easier for us to make further investigations. It will have much more power than you will by yourself."

"Oh, God," I murmured. "I don't know how any sort of Subcommittee would just be able to jump into this without any previous knowledge of what's been happening. You and I… we've encountered so much, and the Oversight Subcommittee won't have had any experience here at all!"

"True," Hale continued thoughtfully. "The group will need a leader who already knows what's been going on here. Someone who could pretend not to be aware of the suspicious and possibly illegal activities when communicating with the Director. The Oversight Subcommittee would need to recruit a Chairman who has already had direct contact with the project."

"But who would that be?"

Hale chuckled. "Me."


	17. Moving Day, Part II

My jaw dropped. "Really? You?"

"Yes. I will act as if I know nothing. The Director will be less suspicious and more cooperative that way. Over time, I will reveal what I know as we find out more information; by the time I tell him exactly of my suspicions, the Oversight Subcommittee will be formed and making full investigations of his facility.

"For now, though, I will remain in contact with the Director. As I leave, I will inform him that I am to be the Chairman of the up-and-coming Oversight Subcommittee—I am legally obligated to tell him that we are forming it, and we must watch closely to how he reacts to this news. If he is innocent, then he will not care about the Subcommittee being formed. However, if he is guilty, I believe his actions will show his nervousness. We must watch him closely over the next few days, Eleven. I will tell him the news immediately after this meeting. I will be shipped off to HQ in two days, and the Director plans to leave on the _Mother of Invention_ in a week. Now, you need to get back to the Freelancers. I believe that the Director will be announcing the move at the end of the meal, and I do not want you to miss it."

"Yes, sir."

We quickly ended our meeting so I could head to the mess hall in time for the announcement. I had just enough time to eat a tray of food beside Georgia and Del before the intercom beeped loudly and made us all jump.

"All Freelancers report to the training room immediately." I recognized the Counselor's voice. I had never met him, but he seemed to be by the Director's side whenever I saw him.

As soon as the announcement was over, the Freelancers began muttering among themselves and moving toward the door.

"I wonder what this is about," Wes said in a low voice to us. "We've never been called to train after hours before."

"Shit," Del moaned. "I hope that we're not about to spar. I think I just ate about seven corn dogs."

I stayed quiet as they discussed what would happen. We reached the training room and I separated from the Freelancers, who lined up formally just as I had seen them do the first day I arrived here. Their backs were to me and they faced one of the doors through which the Director would enter.

I stood behind the super-soldiers, standing meekly against the wall with my hands behind my back. Anytime I came in contact with the Director—anytime he was able to see me with his own eyes—I did exactly what Hale had told me. I stayed invisible. So far, the Director had never even looked my way. Hale was right. I was just a mechanical robot to him. A non-threatening means of information.

The Freelancers automatically straightened their posture as the doors opened. The Director strode in with the Counselor and Hale following close behind.

"Good evening," the Director said. "I have an announcement." He paused, walking slowly to the end of the line of Freelancers and stalking in front of them. "Times are changing. We are continuously progressing. Continuously advancing. The time has come for us to make the next move—the next step in Project Freelancer. We will be soon transferring the entirety of this program to my ship, the _Mother of Invention_."

Although not a muscle moved, I could tell that the Freelancers were instantly curious. Their shock permeated through the air.

"Preparations for the move will begin immediately," the Director continued to his captive audience. "Tonight, begin to pack your things. Weapons, equipment. All of your necessities. Once we leave the Freelancer Facility, we will not be returning, and you will not have the opportunity to come back if you forget something. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," the Freelancers replied obediently.

"Very well," the Director continued, almost down the line of Freelancers. He stopped at Carolina, his eyes flickering toward her, and turned to face them all. "We will be leaving in two days. You are dismissed."

I gasped silently and turned my head to look at Hale at exactly the same moment he glanced sharply at me. Two days? What had happened to his decision to leave a _week_ from now?

The Director turned on his heel and left the training room leisurely, the Counselor obediently following behind. Hale made an almost indiscernible movement with his hand, tapping his radio lightly with his finger. I nodded a fraction of an inch to indicate that I had understood, and he left with the Director as well. Once the doors had closed, the Freelancers instantly relaxed, falling out of formation. I walked over to Bama, Georgia, Wes and Del, frowning.

"…Two days?" Wes was saying to the others. "What the hell? Why the rush?"

God damn it. I couldn't answer them.

"I don't know. He could have given us a little bit of a warning, though," Bama commented, slightly annoyed. "Getting all our shit together in two days isn't exactly going to be a piece of cake."

I walked with them rather quietly, trying to usher them discreetly faster to our rooms.

"You all right, Eleven?" Georgia asked. I hadn't joined into the conversation at all.

"I'm fine," I replied lightly. "Just tired. I have a lot of packing to do now."

Back in my room, I called Hale via radio immediately after my door closed.

"Eleven," Hale responded. "He changed. Dr. Church changed his plans."

"I know. This is insane."

Unbelievable. The moment the Director had found out that Hale was forming an Oversight Subcommittee, he had altered the move-out date to _two days_ from now.

"We do know one thing," Hale continued, stress evident in his voice. "The Director is, without a doubt, a main concern. He wants to leave as soon as possible and is just waiting for me to go before he departs."

So… we knew the Director wasn't innocent. That he was going to be using his rankings for illicit activities.

And, in two days, it would become my sole duty to discover exactly what those were.


	18. Moving Day, Part III

Two days were quickly passing. The Freelancers and I were in a flurry trying to stay on top of training while preparing to board the _Mother of Invention_. Thankfully, the Director gave us the evening before we were supposed to depart off so we could finish packing. I was already set to leave the next morning, but I assumed that the others still had much to prepare. However, at dinner that evening, the conversation didn't surround packing at all.

"All right," Bama was saying to a large group of Freelancers. "We'll leave in a few hours. Same deal as always." The others nodded, but Wash frowned.

"This is the second time this month," he said worriedly. "We could get caught, and if the Director finds out—"

"Come on, Wash, stop worrying so much," York replied. "We'll be fine. We always are."

Wash's face still didn't lighten.

"You're like this every time we go clubbing," South interjected, rolling her eyes. "You complain, and yet you always come."

"I'm not going to be left behind," Wash whined.

"Like York said, we'll be fine," Wes shrugged. "Don't worry, Wash. This is the last time we get to sneak out for a long time. It's kind of hard to do that in space, you know."

* * *

><p>There was no way I wanted to be hung over the next day. Not when I needed to get my last directions from Hale before he left. I was so tempted to share martinis with Georgia and Bama when we arrived at the club, but I restrained myself. Instead, while they went off and ordered more liquor, I stood up and joined Wash and North at one of the other tables.<p>

"Hello, gentlemen," I said casually, slipping into one of the chairs. Wash looked up and jumped slightly. He was wearing a gray button-up dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "How are you two?"

"Hey, Eleven," North said, swigging a bottle of beer. He wore a dark purple polo with green stripes. "Doing well. What about you?"

"Same. Just chilling out. Don't want to be trashed for tomorrow's move."

They nodded, but Wash glanced over at North, who cracked a slight smile and raised an eyebrow. "You know," he said casually. "I think I'm going to go make sure South isn't getting into any trouble." He smirked. "See you two later."

I frowned a little, watching him go. "Uh, I just saw South," I said to Wash. "She was just with Wyoming and—"

"Eleven," Wash said, cutting me off. I glanced at him. He looked sort of uneasy.

"Hmm?"

"Well…" he cleared his throat. "You know this is the last time we'll be able to sneak out anywhere for a while. We'll—we'll be stuck in the ship. Training. And stuff."

"Yeah…?" I asked, tilting my head.

He cleared his throat. "I'm—I—well, there's a restaurant just down the street that I like. I'm going to go and grab something to eat, I think, so… you want to come with me?"

"But… but are you sure we should leave everyone else here?"

Wash chuckled. "Forty-something super-soldiers, here all alone? No, they won't be safe by themselves at all."

"Well... all right," I said, standing up from the table. Why not?

We donned our coats, left the club and walked down the city's street to a sports bar and grill.

"You've been here before?" I asked as we entered.

"Yeah, most of us have been to all these places," Wash replied. "When we don't hit the club—which isn't very often—we'll try the restaurants on this main street. I just like this one the most."

A host led us to a table and we sat down in a small booth.

"When was the last time you came here?" I asked, browsing through the menu.

"It's been a long time, actually," Wash responded, looking around. "Lately, the training has gotten so intense that all everyone wants to do is drink and forget. I don't blame them—I've gotten tanked a couple times myself—but it's nice to get food other than the mess hall garbage we deal with every day. A couple months ago, Maine, York, North and I snuck away from the club—I'm pretty sure it was ladies' night or something—and we hit this place to watch the Superbowl and gorge ourselves on chicken wings and fries. It was great."

"I bet," I smiled as the waitress came up to us. Her eyes fell on Wash and she perked up considerably.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" she asked him, not even looking in my direction.

"I'll take a Coke, please," he said.

"Coming right up," the waitress said enthusiastically, jotting it down. Then she turned to me. "And you?" her tone was significantly less friendly.

"Make that two," I said. She nodded and wrote that down as well, hardly even paying attention.

"I'll be right back with that," she told Wash, smiling sweetly at him. He nodded as she left, still examining the menu and picking absently at one of the yellow buttons on his dress shirt.

As soon as she was out of earshot, I burst out laughing. Wash glanced at me in alarm. "What?"

"Are you serious?" I chuckled. "You are oblivious."

"To what?"

I raised an eyebrow. "That waitress is into you."

He looked at her across the restaurant. "Really?"

"You're a little on the thick side, aren't you?"

Wash shrugged. "I guess she wasn't looking at you very much. That wasn't polite."

"You'd better enjoy this while it lasts," I grinned. "I doubt we'll be stopping by any sports bars while we're in space. This is the last time you're going to be hit on like this."

"What makes you so sure?" Wash smiled. "Am I really that ugly?"

"That's right," I teased as the waitress returned with our drinks.

She set them down and turned to Wash again. "Are you ready to order?"

Wash looked over at me and I nodded. "I am," I said emphatically. Wash watched as she only turned her head a fraction of an inch toward me, her body still facing the Freelancer. "I'd like the house burger with fries. Medium-rare."

She said nothing but wrote it down, still watching Wash. "And for you?" she smiled, batting her eyelashes at him. I tried hard not to snigger.

"I'll have the burger and fries too, but make it medium-well, please."

"No problem. Anything for our customers," she gushed. I definitely let out a snort at that, but recovered quickly and turned it into a cough. "Coming right up."

With another smile, she left, and I gave Wash a knowing stare as I sipped my soda.

"Okay, okay," Wash relented. "So maybe she was flirting a little bit."

"Why else would she pretend like I don't exist?"

He laughed. "I think pretending one of the customers isn't here counts as bad service. Should we deduct that from her tip?"

"I think not giving her your number on the receipt at the end will be insult enough," I replied cheekily. "She'll probably be heartbroken." I stopped. "I mean, unless you _want _to give her your number."

"Right. Because I'm going to give a complete stranger personal information."

I shrugged. "Don't know. She's pretty. If you started paying her more attention, who knows what could happen?"

Wash looked at me. "Well… you're here, so I don't really want to pay attention to her."

My face reddened and I opened my mouth to respond, but I didn't have time to say anything before the waitress came by again, setting bottles of mustard and ketchup in front of us. She flashed Wash another smile before leaving.

"So, tell me," I said, clearing my throat and willing my face to return to its normal color. "How did a guy like you get involved with Project Freelancer?"


	19. Moving Day, Part IV

Wash sighed, taking a large gulp of his soda. "Well, all we were ever hearing about on Earth was the war, wasn't it? The news never talked about anything else. I wanted to do my part. Make a difference." He shook his head. "Beats me how I got into this program, though. That selection was brutal. I thought I'd be kicked out the first day."

I shrugged. "Yet here you are."

"Maybe I'm just lucky," he smiled. "I don't know. I joined Freelancer so I could go out and fight aliens, but we haven't done anything yet. I don't get it. We spend day after day just training. We're all ready to go out and do something important for the war. I just don't get why we haven't started yet."

I shrugged, not answering him_. Oh, I don't know_, I thought. _Maybe because the Director's intentions aren't what we think?_

"What about you?" he asked. "How did you get to be a part of the UNSC reconnaissance team?"

"I joined for the same reason you did," I said to him. "The war. I didn't necessarily want to join the military—I thought working in intelligence would be a better fit."

"Makes it a lot harder for you to tell people your name, though."

"Yeah, the secret-keeping thing is a bit of a drawback. I'll give you that one."

Wash chuckled, bringing his hand to his neck and dragging out a necklace from beneath his shirt.

"I guess we're not being as secretive as we should be," he said, showing me the necklace. Two dog tags hung from the chain. I looked at them—they showed his name, his state alias, and his ID number.

"No…" I said, smiling. "If I were walking around wearing that, I'd probably be dead by now. Or fired. Around here, I need to be especially careful about what I do or say."

"'Here' being Project Freelancer?"

"Yeah."

"How did you end up 'here' anyway? I get that you needed to keep tabs on us—I guess super-soldiers aren't exactly common—but there's only so much information you can get from watching us train. I mean, does the UNSC really need such detailed records of us?"

I nodded a little nervously. "I'm just doing my job," I said. That wasn't a lie.

The waitress came over again with our food and set it down in front of us.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" she simpered at Wash with another coy smile.

"No. We're all set, thanks." Wash said politely, looking at me.

She leaned her hand on the table. "Let me know if you need me for _anything _else."

"Will do," Wash replied. She finally left, and the Freelancer and I waited for her to disappear before we started laughing heartily again, picking up our burgers.

As we had our meal, we continued to converse. The topics rolled easily from one to the next, every few sentences smattered with teasing and sarcasm. We both finished our meals relatively swiftly, considering we both had to meet back at the club with the other Freelancers soon.

When we were done, Wash stood up. "I'll be right back," he said with a smile.

I nodded and watched him curiously as he stepped away, heading toward… our waitress.

I quickly looked away. For some reason, I was struck with a pang of annoyance at the fact that he had gone over to talk to her. I nibbled on the last of my fries as he came back, pretending not to be acutely aware of what he had just done.

"What was that?" I asked casually.

Wash shrugged. "Nothing really," he said. Another inexplicable wave of irritation went through me.

"Okay," I said back, keeping my tone even. "I guess we should head back now."

The super-soldier leaned back in his chair, stretching a bit. "Maybe we could stay just a little bit longer."

"Why? So you can go and flirt with the waitress again?" I asked only half-jokingly.

Wash only smiled at me and glanced to the side. I turned my head to the side as well and jumped as the waitress suddenly appeared next to me. She set down a large slab of chocolate cake with a lit candle sticking out of it; I looked up at her and was confused to see a nasty look of annoyance pasted on her face.

"Congratulations to the both of you," she said flatly. "Here's your complimentary dessert."

She strode away haughtily without another word, and I stared at the melting candle.

"Uh… what was that?" I asked incredulously.

Wash chuckled. "I told her that we were here to celebrate our anniversary. That'll throw her off my trail, don't you think? Let her down easy?"

I burst out laughing. "You sneaky little Freelancer!"

"Plus we get free cake out of it," Wash continued, blowing the candle out and stabbing the slice with his fork. "Who says men can't multitask?"

I continued chuckling and dug into the cake myself. "You never cease to surprise me."

When we had finished, the now-cranky waitress came by and gave us our check; I lunged for it in an instant, but Wash's hand was already on it. I didn't let go of the black leather folder, however, and Wash gave me a look of exasperation.

"Seriously, Eleven? Don't even try."

"Why not?" I challenged, my grip on the bill not loosening.

"I'm the one who asked you to… come with me to begin with. I'm taking time out of your job. So I should pay for the time you've lost."

"That makes no sense at all," I said, tugging at the check. "Let me take care of it."

"Why would I let you do that?"

"Um…" I hesitated. "Because… because I'll make death threats if you don't?"

"Nice try."

With a tug that ripped the check from my grasp, he stole it from me.

"Don't start, Eleven. I'm paying. That's all."

I grumbled as he paid the waitress and we stood up to exit.

"I'm getting you back for this," I muttered when we left the restaurant.

"Not if I can help it."

"Why is it such a big deal if I pay you back?"

"Why is it such a big deal if you don't?"

I didn't have a response for that one. Instead, I sighed in half-irritation as we made our way back toward the club. "You're ridiculous."

Wash shrugged. "If that's the worst thing I am, I can live with that."


	20. Moving Day, Part V

**Chapter 20: Moving Day, Part V**

We entered the club again, and the Freelancers were still partying. They hadn't even noticed our absence.

Wash checked the time and looked at the now-tipsy group of soldiers. "We should wrap up soon," he said over the music. "Tomorrow's going to be insane, and we need at least a few hours of sleep. Want to help me round everyone up?"

I nodded and started stalking around the room, slowly collecting the Freelancers. It was still pretty early to be heading back, but when I let them know that we were leaving, they didn't protest. They knew as well as I that tomorrow's move would begin bright and early.

I was relieved to notice that the Freelancers had decided not to get completely wasted tonight. Of course, they were relatively tipsy, but we didn't have to carry anyone back this time. (Thank God for that, too. Maine was heavy.) However, I was left wondering what exactly the club-goers had done while I was gone. Every time I stepped around the bar, my shoes stuck to the ground slightly. I examined the ground through the throng of people and saw the occasional shard of broken glass lying on the ground.

I decided not to question the odd scene and just continued gathering the Freelancers. I saw the occasional one make a joke about the sticky ground, but I couldn't hear exactly what they were saying.

Jesus. I left to go get burgers and returned to a mess. Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised.

Once Wash and I (and Carolina and York, once Wash had informed them what we were doing) collected all the Freelancers, we all started heading back toward the vans. I suddenly felt extraordinarily tired.

I got into a van with Georgia, Bama, Delaware and Utah. Wes was already driving with North in the passenger seat, so I collapsed in one of the captain's chairs next to Georgia. Delaware, Utah and Bama were crammed in the far back. As Wes pulled out of the parking lot, I turned to the others.

"Have a good time, guys?" I asked tiredly, leaning my head against the chair.

They nodded their assent, and Georgia responded with a fit of giggles. The others glanced over at her and grinned.

"I still can't get over how hilarious that was," Bama chuckled. Utah had his arm smugly around her; I was sure they had squished together in the back on purpose. Del was pretending not to notice. "I had no idea Maine could be so… fruity."

"Why is it always him making a scene at the club?" Wes commented, sniggering.

"Wait, what happened?" I asked. "Maine did something?"

"Didn't you see it happen?" asked Del. "Maine tripped and sent an entire table of shots flying across the room! There was peach Schnapps everywhere, and about ten girls wanted to beat Maine up for ruining their dresses. It stopped the whole club for a few minutes!"

"Yeah," Bama smirked. "I'm sure they wanted to beat him up… he probably would have come home with all ten of them by the end of the night if he could sneak them in here."

"Oh…" I said, smirking. "No, I wasn't in the club for a while."

The others paused. "Where'd you go?" Utah asked.

"Uh, I went out to eat to that sports bar and grill a couple blocks down from the club."

"Really?" Georgia asked curiously. "With whom?"

"Wash."

Bama looked sharply over at me. "Alone?"

I shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah."

She was watching me closely. "And how was it?"

"Fine," I said casually. "I liked the burgers."

"I bet you did," North said under his breath, and I glared at the back of his head.

Although the topic of conversation moved on, I saw Georgia and Bama glance at each other, exchanging a look I couldn't read.

I welcomed the new topic of conversation, enthusiastically talking about the other restaurants down the street from the club. For some reason, I didn't want to look at Georgia or Bama. I felt as if they were observing me just as closely as I watched them during training. It was a little unnerving.

Once we reached the facility and snuck back to our floor, I looked for the soldier in the gray dress shirt with yellow buttons, seeing him heading back toward his room.

"Hey, Wash!" I stopped him just before he disappeared behind his door. "I just wanted to say thank you for tonight," I said. "It was really nice. I had a good time dashing that waitress's hopes and dreams. But…"

"But what?"

"I want to pay you back, you know."

He shrugged. "I'll find a way for you to pay me back."

"You'd better." I smiled. "Thanks again—I really liked having some time to talk. I'll see you in the morning."

"Yep," he replied. "And Eleven?"

"Yes?"

"You looked really nice tonight." He looked as if he were about to say something else, but stopped. "Good night."

We smiled at each other hesitantly and turned around again, walking quickly to get to our rooms.

Once I had reached my own room, I practically collapsed on my bed in exhaustion. I felt really bewildered for some reason. I was… I was probably just tired. It had been a long day. And tomorrow would be an even longer one.


	21. Moving Day, Part VI

"It's almost time," Hale said to me, checking his clock. He and I were both standing on a loading dock just outside the facility. Although it was early, the entire building was bustling around busily, making hurried preparations to board the _Mother of Invention_. The Freelancers were all in the large hangar not far from where I stood, helping to load the cargo.

"You're going to be fine," my superior continued, seeing the worry lining my face. "You'll be able to talk to me whenever you need to with our radios. I'll check in every so often to see your progress. I wish I didn't have to leave, but that's just the way things are. We'll work with what options we are given."

I nodded, not answering him. My stomach had been tied in knots since I had woken up in the morning, extremely nervous to depart with the entirety of Project Freelancer's investigation on my shoulders.

Much sooner than I had hoped, Hale's transport came to pick him up. He had already given me my final instructions in his pathetically empty office this morning. My job wouldn't really change, Hale had said. I would be staying invisible, following the Director's passive orders to give him information and help set up and continue this ranking system.

"All right, I'm off to HQ," Hale said briskly, turning toward me for the last time. He put a hand on my shoulder. "Good luck, Agent. I know this is going to be difficult, but I have full confidence in you. I am proud to have you as an employee."

He nodded sagely and turned away, entering the transport. I gave him a salute as the ship left, utterly flattered. He had never given me a compliment like that before.

Once the transport had left, I turned away and went to the main hangar. As I entered, I saw the Director's ship for the first time. _Mother of Invention_ was stamped across the side along with _RT-636_. Staff members and Freelancers were running around helping to prepare the ship for takeoff, only a couple hours away. We had to work quickly if we wanted everything in the vessel in time to follow the Director's schedule.

I started helping the Freelancers and staff carry necessary equipment to the ship. This included all of the gym's training materials, the Freelancers' personal belongings, and anything else the staff needed in order to keep the Freelancers in top condition. They seemed to have enough help with that—when I arrived, a kind staff member had already moved the boxes containing my personal belongings onto the ship—so I made my way over to another cargo platform where enormous boxes were being loaded into an area far beyond where the Freelancers were allowed.

I approached them, ready to help, but a hand stopped me. I turned around and was face-to-face with none other than the Counselor.

"Counselor?" I said with surprise. I had never spoken to the Director's right hand man in my life, and here he was, staring intently at me.

"Hello, Agent Eleven."

"I—hello," I said, still rather shocked.

I gulped. The Counselor wasn't supposed to pay attention to me. That made me much too visible to the Director as well. He was just as much my superior as Dr. Church.

"Are you quite prepared for takeoff?" he asked smoothly, a polite smile on his face.

"Yes, sir," I said, regaining my composure. "I was just going to help at that other end of the ship—"

"Agent." The Counselor interrupted me gently but firmly. "The staff members carrying those boxes need no assistance. Please return to the Freelancers immediately."

"Yes, sir," I said obediently. Automatically.

"Thank you," he said in his overly-courteous monotone. "We will be departing shortly."

"Affirmative, Counselor," I said with a little more conviction as the shock wore off. "I'll go right away."

"I'm glad to hear that, Eleven." He watched me as I walked off in the opposite direction, and I felt his eyes on my back.

"Oh, Agent?"

I turned and faced him, straight-backed. "Sir?"

"Once we are all settled on the ship, I will cordially invite you to join me in my office for a… chat, of sorts. Please keep that in mind."

_Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit._

"Yes, sir. I'll be ready."

He nodded and shooed me off with that small smile plastered on his face. I smiled back hesitantly and turned around, anxious to head back to the Freelancers. A "chat"? I didn't know what the hell that meant, and part of me didn't want to find out.

Everything the Freelancers needed was already packed and ready to go when I returned. The Counselor was busy helping the staff members on the other side of the ship with the mysterious boxes.

I frowned and tried watching them discreetly. The boxes were marked "Restricted: Authorized Personnel Only." After scanning all the other packages to be loaded on the ship, I found that none of the others bore this phrase. They continued the loading process carefully, glancing at the Freelancers as if making sure none of them wandered over to their area. None did.

They were trying to keep us away from those boxes.

So, naturally, I decided to find out exactly what was inside them.

* * *

><p>Once we had carted everything on to the ship—right on time—we took off, leaving the facility utterly empty.<p>

The Freelancers and I were given the day to settle into our new home. The Director's ship was organized much like the facility. The hierarchy of importance was obvious—only certain people could go to certain levels of the ship. I had a feeling that the Director had many more cameras to monitor his employees on the ship as well.

As we entered deep space, a staff member was sent to collect us and show us to our rooms. We carried the boxes of our possessions to one of the lower levels of the ship to a hallway. I was reminded strongly of the facility; we each had our own rooms and each door was marked with a different state.

As we made our way down the hallway, I watched the staff member nervously. Hale told me that the Director—if he had taken any notice of me or had gotten suspicious—would move my living quarters to another area of the ship far away from the Freelancers so I couldn't get involved in their daily lives.

Trying to act inconspicuous, I made my way down the hallway, my eyes scanning each door quickly as I looked for the Florida room.

As I reached the door between Delaware and Georgia, my stomach flipped. There was no longer a room marked "Florida" between them.

I almost dropped all my boxes as I stared at the door. "Florida" had been painted across the door previously—the black lettering was scratched off, though I could see small remnants of the "F" and "d." The door now had a new label in bold black lettering that matched the doors of the other Freelancers:

**AGENT 11**

The Director had… had given me my own room.

This was either very good or very bad.

On the plus side, he could have been starting to trust me—starting to see me as a useful tool. Maybe even an ally. He wasn't just throwing me nonchalantly in whichever room was empty. I wasn't just using the Florida room anymore. This room was mine.

On the other hand, I had failed one of my mission objectives. Hale and I had discussed this. I was specifically supposed to stay invisible. Under the radar. Unnoticed.

I certainly wasn't a shadow now.

Whatever the reason for the permanent black lettering on the door, I knew one thing. The Director wasn't about to let me leave Project Freelancer anytime soon.


	22. Moving Day, Part VII

Our rooms were relatively similar to those at the Freelancer facility. They were smaller, but we still had all the basics. The first thing I did after dragging my things to the bedroom was check for hidden security cameras. I scanned every inch of the room before I was positive I wasn't being watched; then, I set up the rest of my belongings and exited the room, locking it behind me.

I wanted to make a full investigation of the ship by myself; I needed to get myself accustomed to its layout. Unlike the first time I had snooped around the facility, this time, I had a valid excuse. I grabbed my clipboard, and, if anyone asked, I was heading to the training room to make sure all the equipment was working properly. I needed to do that anyway, so no one could question my actions.

The ship was enormous. I tried to memorize the endless hallways and levels, but I knew it would take time.

I had expected the training room, just like everything else on the ship, to be smaller than the one at the facility, but I was stunned by its size. It was state-of-the-art, and, if anything, even better than the one on land. The Director certainly had big plans for his employees.

After a while, I had made my way through every area to which I was allowed access, and everything looked normal. However, the ship had many more restricted areas than the facility did. These were the places I really wanted to investigate, but I didn't even try entering. I couldn't do anything suspicious. Besides, the security on the ship was much more strict—if that were possible—than at the facility. York had commented on it the moment we had stepped inside.

These locations had been where the restricted boxes had been loaded. Despite my burning desire to see what was beyond those doors, I turned away from them and headed back toward my room.

When I reached it, I continued to unpack. The last box I had to go through was of my personal accessories. I needed to get to my radio and contact Hale before the day was over.

On my box, the lid was skewed to the side and rather lopsided. I frowned, sure that I had closed it properly when I had packed it. The lid came off much more easily than it should have, and I looked inside. Everything seemed to be in place. I hooked on my armor belt and attached each piece of my technology.

Now, it was time to call Hale. I reached toward my radio… and it wasn't there. I frowned, searching all over my armor and triple checking the box that had contained all of my personal items. It was nowhere to be found.

Shit. How could it have fallen out of my box? I had noticed that the box's lid was crooked, but, then again, how could that be? I had made sure that all of my boxes were locked securely before delivering them to the ship's hangar.

I didn't have time to wonder what had happened to it. Hale was expecting my call soon, and I couldn't keep him waiting. I left my room, looking for some tech staff. I needed to borrow a radio as soon as possible.

I thought it would take me at least an hour to track down someone from tech support, but, conveniently, one of the techies was standing in the next hallway over, checking to make sure FILSS was integrating properly with the air conditioning system.

"Excuse me," I said, interrupting him. He turned to face me. "Hello, I'm Agent Eleven. I work in…" I trailed off, not really knowing what to call what I did around here. "I work in Freelancer training and analysis. I was actually just looking for someone from tech support."

The man nodded. "I'm Gus. What do you need?"

"Well, I think I may have lost my radio," I said, a little embarrassed. "It fell out of my box. Do you think you could tell me where I could go to get another one?"

Gus didn't look surprised. "Actually, I have an extra radio right here," he said, handing me one from his belt.

"Oh, wow," I said, taking it. "Thank you. I wasn't expecting that. I can get it back to you later on tonight, if you want. Where can I find you?"

He shrugged. "You can just keep it. I don't need it."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Don't worry about it," he said, turning back to FILSS. "Nice to meet you, Agent."

"Likewise. Thanks, Gus."

Grateful but a little nonplussed, I headed back to my room. That had been… really easy. I went back to the Freelancer's hallway, examining the radio closely. It looked pretty much like mine. It had all the necessary dials, buttons, and… something extra.

I looked closely at a black coin-like object attached to the back of the radio. I didn't know exactly what it was, but it looked somewhat familiar. I headed back to the side hallway where Gus had been, but when I got there, he had vanished. I shrugged and made my way to my room instead, locking myself in once I reached it.

I looked at the small cylindrical attachment, trying to remember whether other radios needed it. I certainly didn't have one on the radio I had misplaced. I rubbed it, trying to remember what it was, when a flake of paint came off. I frowned and began scratching at the blackness; the attachment was bright red underneath and seemed to be screwed on to the motherboard of my radio. I instantly recognized it.

It was an eavesdropping device. The UNSC used technology like this all the time for infiltration. Any time I used this radio, whomever had implanted the device could hear every word that was said.

Realizing something, I ran to the box that had contained my personal items and stared closely at the top. The boxes had all been nailed shut, but the top of mine still contained nails bent at grotesque angles. The top of the box hadn't fallen off. It had been pried off.

The Director had ordered my radio to be stolen.

I sat on my bed, thinking hard. With my old radio, I had had full access to Hale any time I wanted. I could tell Hale anything—any suspicious observations at all—without the Director being aware of it. The Director knew that I had this power.

So he took that power away from me.

The Director wanted to keep me around. That much was obvious. However, I could see now that he didn't want me to report anything suspicious to Hale or suspect anything myself. By stealing my radio and forcing me to use the one that belonged to Project Freelancer, the Director could now listen in on my conversations.

God, it had been too easy. Gus had been planted there just for me. They knew I would go looking for someone to help me.

I couldn't let the Director know that he had just increased his level of suspicion exponentially. Unfortunately, however, I couldn't let Hale know this interesting tidbit of information either. I needed to form this conversation very carefully if I didn't want to be thrown out of Project Freelancer within minutes.

I had only one thing on my side. The UNSC was better than this. We knew how to outsmart the eavesdropping devices. Because of the secrecy of our own call lines, the Director would only be able to hear my end of the conversation. Anything Hale said would be blocked.

I picked up the radio and called Hale nervously.

"James Malcolm Hale."

I gulped. "Agent Eleven speaking. Hello, sir."

"Eleven," Hale said. "Good to hear from you. I just arrived at HQ. I trust you have departed from the facility?"

Okay. Time to speak as monosyllabically as possible. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Are you in deep space now?"

"Yes."

"And have you made your rounds and checked the ship?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad to hear that. What suspicious activities have you encountered?"

Crap. "Some."

"Eleven, I will need specifics."

Crap, crap, crap. I'd be going out on a limb with this, but I didn't know what else to do. "Yes, the food in the mess hall is delicious."

Hale paused. "What?"

"I've been very well fed," I continued, letting out a fake little laugh. "At the end of each meal, I'm never left wanting more."

"Agent, what the hell are you on about?"

I didn't stop talking. "They always give me _extra helpings_. And the cooks take so much time trying to prepare the meals for us. They especially like to _add things_ to my plate. In fact, the staff really does make me feel welcome. I never feel _alone_."

It was a horrible code. Just horrible. I was pretty sure I had just shamed the name of recon Agents everywhere.

Hale was silent a moment, and I wondered whether I was about to be fired for talking nonsense. However, after a moment, I heard a couple of beeps from the other end of the line, and I recognized them with a sigh of relief. Hale was running a diagnostic on our conversation.

"You're being monitored," Hale said. "I've just run the test. Outstanding work, Eleven. It's a good thing you caught that, or this entire mission would have failed." He chuckled. "Remind me to enroll you in a code course when you get back."

I smirked. "Yes, sir."

"All right, Eleven, this changes our plans," Hale said brusquely. "Just answer me with a 'yes' or 'no.' Are you all right? That is my primary concern."

"Yes."

"Then listen to me very carefully. I am no longer your confidant in this situation. We cannot remove the eavesdropping device from your radio, or the Director will know that you suspect him. To make things worse, every call we make will increase the Director's suspicions of you. Therefore, we will not be talking frequently anymore. You must collect as much information from Project Freelancer as possible, but you have to do it alone. When you are sure you have found proof of the Director's illegal activities—and only when that occurs—you will contact me. Otherwise, you must call me only if there is an emergency. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. I don't like the look of this, Eleven. Not at all. This mission is becoming more dangerous by the moment. This is your last chance to change your mind." He paused. "Are you ready to take down Project Freelancer?"

I replied without hesitation.

"Absolutely."


	23. Armor Enhancements, Part I

Without my radio, I felt as if I had lost a limb. It was without a central part of my being—my one form of stability. Hale was now utterly out of reach; I had no help or support in my mission.

It was a lonely feeling.

Training continued as normal. My analyses did not change; I continued to deliver them at the end of each day to the drop box outside the Director's office. He didn't seem to notice me, but now I knew otherwise. I knew he was aware of me and my actions, but I didn't dare let on. Anytime I was in the same room as he was—which wasn't that often—I bowed my head obediently and stayed quiet. I still attempted to remain a shadow even though I knew that the presence of a sky blue UNSC Agent was now anything but.

My primary concern was what lay beyond those restricted areas. I had to bide my time, however. I would need to get past them at the opportune moment.

* * *

><p>One afternoon, the Freelancers and I were scheduled to attend what I expected would be a normal weapons seminar. As we filed into the room, I plopped down in the vacant seat between Wes and Georgia. We chatted quietly until a staff member entered the room and waved to us to be silent. However, the staff member was not the only person to walk into the lecture area. Both the Director and Counselor strode in as well.<p>

Upon seeing our superior, the Freelancers and I instantly straightened up in our chairs. The Director didn't attend our lectures. I frowned in confusion as he led the Counselor to the back of the room. There, he stood and faced us; we could feel his eyes boring into the backs of our heads.

"Today, we are making an important announcements about this program," began the lecturer. He was a rather important member of the staff—Burns gave many of the seminar lectures and delivered most of the Director's commands to the Freelancers. "It's time for us to announce some changes we're going to be making to your training procedures."

The only sound I could hear was that of myself—I was taking notes furiously on a tablet. Burns pulled up a holographic image of a suit of armor in black, rotating it slowly.

"This is an example of a standardized suit of armor," he continued. "However, after today, your suits are going to become much more powerful than they are now. You are all trained to the peak of your physical capabilities, but you're not living up to your name. You may be excellent soldiers, but you're not yet "super"-soldiers. That's where our new additions come in. Soon, you are going to be getting your own armor enhancements."

Although no one moved, I could feel the excitement in the air. They were getting new technology—new ways to win in combat. New ways to become stronger.

"Each of you will receive at least one enhancement according to your best strengths and abilities. We're going to begin assigning the enhancements and training you with them immediately. In order to make sure that this process goes as smoothly and safely as possible, we will be giving you your enhancements and testing them in groups. Understand, though, that it will be dangerous to use your enhancements without… further technology. So… some of you will be unable to use your enhancements until further notice. It will simply be too dangerous."

I watched intently as Burns began explaining details about the different armor enhancements, and I simply couldn't look away from the black-armored holographic figure. Each armor enhancement really did make its user somewhat superhuman. There seemed to be no enhancement that Project Freelancer was without. My friends were about to become the fictional superheroes I had admired as a child.

Although it was exciting, there was nothing illegal about what the Director was doing; I tried unsuccessfully to find a loophole. New technology for armor was always coming out and any registered military program was free to use it. These enhancements were out of the ordinary, perhaps, but they certainly stayed within legal boundaries. As long as the Freelancers were aware of the side effects and dangers that these enhancements could have, I still had nothing on the Director.

* * *

><p>At dinner that evening, the mess hall was much louder than usual—the Freelancers spoke loudly about the excitement surrounding the armor enhancements. Most of them were extremely excited, joking back and forth about who would get which ability.<p>

"I mean, a _healing unit_?" York was saying. "Who the hell would want that? Only the worst of us will get assigned that advancement. It'll probably be you, Wash."

"Hey!" Wash protested.

"Come on, man. You'll have to accept that you're the worst of the group at one point or another."

Wash rolled his eyes at his friend. "Yeah, I'm the worst. Because I definitely didn't kick your ass today in training."

"Yeah, that was really graceful," I interjected. "He threw you into the wall, what, fifteen feet above he ground?"

That shut York up, but he took his defeat with a shrug and a smile. Carolina, however, glared at me for daring to criticize him.

"I've got to reach my daily quota for giving Wash shit somehow," York chuckled.

However, a few of the Freelancers were not as pleased about the enhancements.

"Seems to me like he's using us as guinea pigs," commented Pennsylvania in a nearby discussion. "Remember what Burns said—these armor enhancements are dangerous."

"We're not lab rats," South snorted. "We get to be the first people ever to have these things. Can't you just be grateful?"

"Grateful?" Penn replied. "Listen, if—"

"I wonder what he meant when he was talking about 'further technology,'" interrupted Wes. "That doesn't sound good to me. That made it seem like some of us won't be able to use our abilities at all."

"Yeah," Bama agreed. "Why would he give us the enhancements if we don't have the tech to use them? It doesn't make any sense."

The Freelancers murmured in agreement. We had no idea what "further technology" meant, but whether it existed or not, no one wanted to be stuck not allowed to use their armor enhancements.

The more I heard about the enhancements, the more confused I became. Burns hadn't really been very clear about the testing procedures. According to him, the enhancements were too "dangerous" to use without further technology, and that the Freelancers wouldn't be able to operate properly without it. If that were true, why were they already starting to hand them out and test them? I wasn't even concerned about legalities anymore. I was just trying to work through the logic.


	24. Armor Enhancements, Part II

As the Freelancers were given their armor enhancements—soldier by soldier and group by group—they were being treated almost as if they were bombs about to explode. I didn't blame the staff for doing so; every enhancement the Freelancers received had the capability to cause an unimaginable amount of damage to the ship and its passengers alike.

Every soldier was given the same instructions when he or she was given armor enhancements. They had to keep two things in mind:

1.) They were not, under any circumstances, to use the technology outside of training. Disobeying this could mean serious injury or even death.

2.) They had to remember that the armor enhancements were not in their final states. Project Freelancer was still working on that nebulous "further technology" for the enhancements to work properly, so some soldiers were unable to use their new toys at all.

This made Wyoming in particular crankier than ever. His armor enhancement—a temporal distortion unit for time-travel, of all things—was given to him but was strictly off-limits until further notice. The other Freelancers were visibly jealous of his powerful addition but secretly rejoicing in the fact that he had to suffer waiting for some unknown period of time before he could actually use it. He complained copiously behind the scenes, but he knew better than to try to test the technology himself. The Freelancers were also told that anyone who defied the rules would be thrown out of the program immediately.

I had my reservations about that threat, however. Even if the Freelancers disobeyed, I figured the Director would not fire them for the same reason he kept them despite their monthly escapades to the club—he had worked too hard on them to give any of them up. However, no one wanted to test to see if the threats were a bluff, and I didn't blame them.

* * *

><p>The testing was going relatively well, in my opinion. Some of the Freelancers truly struggled with their assigned armor enhancements, but others were shining stars.<p>

"Are you ready, Agent North Dakota?" a staff member, Barbara, called to North. The staff members who usually ran the training sessions were now the ones testing the enhancements. I was in my usual viewing area, and they were in the viewing area on the opposite wall from me.

Some of the Freelancers were standing in my location as well; they had decided to watch North's first armor enhancement test. He had been assigned an advanced motion tracker; with his already outstanding shooting skills, I knew this only made him more deadly.

"This should be good," York commented, leaning against one of the windows of the viewing area, gazing down at his dark-purple-and-green clad friend. "North's gonna look like a badass."

"Unlike you, you mean," Wash replied.

"Listen, man, I don't want to hear it," York groaned. "How was I supposed to know I'd get the healing unit?"

"I guess we see now who's the—what was it you said?—the 'worst of the group,' right?"

"Oh, can it, will you?" York retorted genially. "Maybe they think that I'm so good I don't even need any enhancements."

Wash chuckled and turned to face the glass as well. "Advanced motion tracker, though. He's got to be careful with that. If he loses control, he could shoot one of us in action. I don't know about you, but I sure as hell don't want to be caught in that misfire."

After making sure that his pipeline hooked to the command server was functional, Barbara gave him the go-ahead. A timer was set up at the top of the training field showing thirty seconds and North activated his advanced motion tracker. From the training room ceiling, a few vents were opened and dense clouds of dry ice drifted through the room. North waited patiently until the entire room was covered; the soldier below had completely disappeared.

Though I could not see what was happening, I had been debriefed before the test started and already knew what the beeping sound meant. Different human-sized targets were being raised into the room from beneath the floor heated to human temperature. At the second beep, the timer started and I heard the sounds of twelve shots from North's gun.

Not five seconds had passed when I heard a shrill alarm sound from the timer. The Freelancers and I looked at each other, our eyebrows knitted.

"Did something go wrong?" South asked. She sounded almost hopeful.

"Don't know," Del replied. "Doesn't look like it. We'll just have to wait and see."

The ceiling vents were opened again and the hum of vacuums began as all the dry ice was sucked from the room. As the fogginess cleared, we saw that the opposite of "something wrong" had occurred.

North was standing in the middle of the training room floor, and he had already unloaded and put away his gun. He was standing expectantly facing Barbara as a dozen heated mannequins now lay strewn across the floor. Each one had a single bullet directly in the heart.

"Wow," breathed Georgia. "That was fantastic."

"Props," agreed Del.

South rolled her eyes. "It wasn't that great," she complained. "Anyone could have done that. It was just a little bit of smoke."

No one paid her any attention as we watched North humbly help the staff members pick up and repair the damaged mannequins. He was a good guy. Not even acing his armor enhancement training gave him a big head. I continued taking positive notes as South grumbled and the other Freelancers chatted, pleasantly impressed.

North had wowed us all with his exceptional motion tracker skills; even without the mysterious "further technology," in my opinion, he was ready to go into battle. However, no matter how well he did, he was warned, of course, never to use his skills unless told to do so. The repetition of these commands was becoming tiresome.

North's success with the motion tracker also made the Freelancers who hadn't tested their armor enhancements even more anxious to begin. Wyoming was crankier than ever, itching to test out his time-travel. Delaware was sorely tempted to try his hand-held portals as he watched Georgia successfully pass her high-jump armor enhancement training. All the Freelancers were dying to see where their new powers could take them.

During another round of testing, Utah came to the floor to test his prototype enhancement: the domed energy shield.


	25. Armor Enhancements, Part III

I stood in my viewing area above the training floor with the usual group of curious Freelancers. Bama had decided to join us this time, and I waved her over as I saw her enter.

"Nice to see you up here," I commented as she came up next to me.

"Yeah, I couldn't pass it up. I really like the sound of Utah's armor enhancement."

"I bet that's not the only enhancement of his you're interested in," smirked Delaware, who had just joined us as well. Bama gave him a death glare. "I'm just sayin,' Bama! You two spend an awful lot of time with his—"

She threw a smack at him and he ducked, laughing.

I left my bickering friends to approach the windows and saw Utah in the middle of the floor. He faced me, his back to a few of the staff members.

"What do you think?" I said to Wash, who had come up beside me.

"Don't know," he replied, his arms crossed as he stared down at Utah. "These energy shield things sound great. He just needs to get past the testing and he'll pretty much be invincible."

The Freelancers were excited to see Utah's domed energy shield. Who wouldn't want around-the-clock protection from enemies in battle? True, Utah had been given shit for receiving a defensive enhancement rather than a powerful offensive tool, but everyone knew secretly that this enhancement was extraordinarily valuable; no one would have been disappointed with it.

I watched the staff members as they prepared for Utah's first test.

"Are you ready, Agent Utah?" called Barbara.

"Affirmative."

"All right. You may begin."

Utah adjusted a bit of his armor and glanced up at the viewing area.

"Okay, bubble shield on my mark. In three, two, one…"

He activated the energy shield, and… we were a little underwhelmed. A pale sphere had formed around his head, but it had stopped around his helmet. The rest of his body was completely unprotected.

The Freelancers began muttering, confused.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Why does it look like that?"

"I don't think that's the way it works…"

"Mark?" Utah repeated, looking around a bit confusedly. I saw the staff members waiting patiently for the bubble shield to grow, but nothing seemed to be happening.

"Is it working?" he asked. "Seems kinda… small…"

"Partly," Barbara replied. We could hear their conversation through their radios, which were hooked up to speakers in the viewing area. This made it much easier for me to know what was going on and take notes on the action.

Utah didn't seem to be paying attention to her. He looked a little confused. "Can anyone else not breathe?"

I frowned, glancing at the staff members. They were still watching him, waiting for the energy shield to expand to its normal diameter.

"Something…" Bama said softly, staring at the soldier. "Something's not right…"

We watched, glancing at each other worriedly, as Utah took a labored breath. Shouldn't the staff members call off the training? Was this supposed to be happening?

Utah shuddered a bit. "So dark…"

Then, with a small moan, he collapsed to the ground.

"Oh… oh, my God…" Bama squeaked, her eyes wide. "No…!"

The staff members instantaneously sprang into action. A medical team entered the training room immediately, approaching the fallen soldier. They began working at his armor right there on the floor—they couldn't afford to wait and cart him to the med bay.

My viewing area was silent as we watched. We heard the medical team speaking urgently under their breaths, but their radios weren't connected to our speaker system so we could only hear what the training room microphones picked up. We could only trace scattered pieces of sound.

"Remove… hancement… suffocate…"

Bama wobbled dangerously and Wash and I rushed to hold her up.

"Come on, man…" York said under his breath.

"They have to get that thing off of him!" Bama breathed. I couldn't tell if she had started panicking or if she was just in danger of passing out. "Why's it taking so long?"

A medical technician was still working on the enhancement, trying to turn it off. How long had Utah been without air? Why wouldn't the enhancement come off?

"Just don't worry," I said to Bama amid the silent Freelancers. She was shaking. "He'll be okay. Just calm down. We can't have two soldiers in the med bay, Bama. They'll… they'll need to focus on him."

My voice seemed to reverberate across the viewing area, and I even sounded foreboding to myself. Bama took a few deep breaths and attempted to calm down, but as I glanced at the others, they knew that my words had been empty of confidence.

Finally, just as Bama began breathing normally again, the medical team was able to shut off the armor enhancement. The opaque bubble around Utah's head flickered and disappeared, but his body remained motionless. We all hoped he might stir and cough and stand up again, but he didn't wake; the medical crew immediately lifted the Freelancer onto a stretcher and headed toward the med bay.

Utah had failed his training.

* * *

><p>The rest of the day was horrible. After Utah left for the med bay, Bama locked herself in her room and refused to emerge for the rest of the evening. She skipped dinner, where the Director made an alarmingly short speech about the accident, assuring us that plans would continue as usual.<p>

The Freelancers were now torn. They wanted the armor enhancements to mimic North's success, but they were now extremely aware just how dangerous the technology was.

That night, I was making my way back to my room after collecting further paperwork from Burns. After what happened to Utah, I needed to fill out even more forms describing the incident. As if I didn't have enough to do.

Unfortunately, in the chaos surrounding Utah's accident, I had completely abandoned my notes. I had written practically nothing down while we were waiting for the medical team to disable the bubble shield, and I was now paying dearly for that. The stress of the amount of work I now had to do was getting to me.

I strode back toward my room through the now-darkened hallways, struggling not to dissolve into a panic. On top of the pages of the accident report I now had to complete, the Director was demanding even more detailed analyses of the rest of the Freelancers. He didn't want another mistake like Utah's incident to happen again.

I looked down at my stack of papers and tried to straighten them up as I walked. I brought a crooked piece of paper from the bottom of the pile to the top to make it neater, but my heart throbbed when I saw it.

It was a copy of Utah's training report; I hadn't looked at it since the accident. It followed the action up until I had stopped writing, where a jagged pen line of shock scratched at the page and cut me off mid-sentence.

At seeing that, I couldn't hold it in anymore. I let out a small, choked sob. All of my worries seemed to come crashing down on me at once, forcing tears to form at my eyes.

This was a professional military project. The real fighting hadn't even started yet. This was training. People weren't supposed to get injured here. My friends weren't supposed to get hurt.

A single tear dropped from my cheek onto the paper as everything I had been worried about clouded my mind. I was failing. Falling behind on my work. The Director kept giving me more and more, expecting me to be able to handle it. Expecting me to be on his side. He probably knew I was a mole. He knew I was trying to rat him out. I was failing at this mission and I couldn't do this anymore and I was going to get kicked out and—

"Eleven?"

I looked up quickly and saw Wash just down the hall. I had reached the corridor lined with our bedrooms without even knowing it, but he was alone. Mortified, I swallowed back my sobs and sniffed loudly.

"Hi, Wash." My voice sounded husky.

"Are you all right?" he asked, approaching me as I walked toward him. I didn't stop walking though and bent my head down so he couldn't see me.

"Yep. Fine."

"Eleven, stop."

Wash grasped my shoulder and I halted, slowly spinning around to face him. However, I still didn't look at him. I didn't want him to see the tears on my face.

"You're crying."

"I'm stressed."

"About Utah?"

"Yes. Utah. My work. What the Director expects. Feel like I can't keep up."

I was staring down at the floor, my eyes closed.

"You're doing fine," he insisted. His hand was still resting on my shoulder. "This has been a shock for all of us. You shouldn't feel like you're in this alone."

I said nothing, but a small tear plopped onto Utah's paper again.

_You have no idea how alone I am._

"Eleven, look at me."

After hesitating a moment, I lifted my chin up to gaze at him and gasped a little. His face was not five inches from mine. He inhaled sharply too, surprised at the sudden closeness. We stood there for a moment, bewildered… but not pulling away.

"Eleven…" he said softly. "You… you're fine…"

His voice trailed off and we stared at each other for a moment. We didn't pull our faces away from each other. In fact… Wash's seemed to be approaching mine. I parted my lips slightly, unable for some reason to form any sort of coherent thought and saw his eyes flicker downward…

…And he sprang away from me.

A repetitive tapping sound was echoing toward us. Footsteps. Someone was coming.

Wash staggered back, his face completely red. He whispered an urgent and utterly mortified "good night" before disappearing down the hallway. I didn't stop to see who was coming—I careened to my own bedroom and slammed the door shut, panting as I locked it behind me and almost dropping all my paperwork.

Oh. My. God.

No.

No, no, no.

This was not good.

I could not let this happen. I was on a mission. I was working. I was not to be gallivanting around with the employers of my enemy. They were utterly off-limits. I was not going to get kicked out of this program for some _guy._

Hale's warning echoed dangerously in my mind, and I swallowed hard.

"_Do not let your emotions get in the way of your job."_


	26. Armor Enhancements, Part IV

Carolina walked off the training floor amid smoking piles of test dummies. The Freelancers and I observing her from the viewing area began talking all at once, commenting on Carolina's performance. Her super-speed had allowed her to take out an entire army of the dummies in the same amount of time North shot down all of his targets, and we were floored. I had few criticisms for the pale blue Freelancer and accented my notes with praises for her work.

"There is nothing that girl can't do," York laughed as she haughtily disappeared from the training room floor. Unlike North, she had simply walked off and allowed the staff members to pick up the wreckage by themselves.

"Yeah, except have a small ego," South muttered.

I looked through my papers as the Freelancers made their way to their next training seminar. Carolina's performances had never been flawless—that was just impossible—but it was clear she was head and shoulders above the rest. As the Freelancers continued to train with their armor enhancements, I really didn't know exactly how the rankings would stand, but I had an easier time seeing how the soldiers all compared.

However, I avoided thinking about the rankings themselves. I personally had nothing to do with them. I just provided the Director with statistics, and that was all I wanted to do. I didn't want the burden of assigning the best and worst Freelancers. The Director's system would take care of that.

I still dreaded the day when the rankings would be published, but I eluded thinking about that by staying in the moment. For now, I had to organize my paperwork quickly and head over to the Freelancers' next seminar.

When I reached the room, most of the Freelancers were already seated. I took an empty space next to Wash and smiled a little hesitantly at him, and he grinned back. Much to my surprise, he had been acting completely normally toward me—as if nothing had happened the day of Utah's accident. I kept running that moment through my mind over and over again, and I just kept becoming more confused.

Maybe I had been tired. Maybe I had misinterpreted Wash's intentions. He continued to act exactly as he had before that evening—friendly and teasing with a side of protocol-tinted seriousness—so I began questioning my own memories and brushed them off. I was stressed. I had been imagining things.

He and I chatted casually for a bit before Burns entered the room again, signaling at us to quiet down. When we saw the hologram he projected in front of us, we immediately fell silent: it was the bubble shield.

"We have a lot to do today, everyone," Burns said to us. "Let's get started."

We all stared at the hologram. This had been a topic lingering on all our minds, and we all sat silently, waiting for Burns to continue. After Utah's accident, the bubble shield had been taken back to the development lab for repairs. We were unsure what would happen next; I wondered whether we would even see that armor enhancement again.

"After multiple alterations," Burns said. "The bubble shield armor enhancement is ready to be given to another Freelancer. We have ensured its relative safety and believe that another Agent will be successful. However, only the most skilled Freelancers are recommended for its implementation."

Wash and I exchanged a look, our eyebrows raised. This statement made me uneasy in a variety of ways. The staff members at Project Freelancer had said before that the armor enhancements were "ready" to be given to the soldiers, and Utah had still suffered a catastrophe. Furthermore, "relative safety"? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

The worst part of Burns' speech had been the last sentence. "The most skilled Freelancers." That meant that the rankings were beginning. They were looming ever closer and would be published at any moment to the others. The thought of it made my stomach clench with dread.

The Freelancers were all staring around at each other, wondering who would be the unfortunate employee good enough to be assigned the shield. Wash was glancing over at Carolina, but I doubted that the Director was willing to put her in danger like that. After that talk he had with her back at the facility, I knew she was in no danger of being hurt by any armor enhancements.

"The bubble shield will be assigned immediately," said Burns. "To Agent North Dakota."

The entire group turned to look at North, and he seemed to pale slightly in his seat. However, he made no other indication that he was upset or nervous. He simply stared at Burns and nodded soberly.

I furrowed my brow and jotted down this new piece of information. Utah's accident had been bad enough… I didn't know if I could handle North undergoing the same kind of fate. He was such an honest and humble guy. He took care of his bitch of a sister. We needed him around here.

"Now," Burns said, changing the hologram and displaying two buildings on either side of a large field. He hadn't even given us time to let the information of North's new enhancement sink in. "Our training techniques, now that many of you have become accustomed to your enhancements, are moving forward. We will no longer simply be having training sessions inside the ship. The time has come to use your talents in the field—and, while they will be training exercises, you will need them to hone your already advanced skills."

Burns changed the holograms and two colored flags appeared on top of the buildings.

"Project Freelancer," Burns said. "Meet the simulation troopers: the Reds and the Blues."


	27. Dear Director, Part I

(I'd like to take this moment to thank my fabulous reviewers: Shotgun assassin, XReaperBlade, Martienne, agent pennsylvania, Neon Glow Black, flamingparadox169, ikeepitprivate, Intellectually Annoying, Randompie, iwantyourovaries, Amber Jae, Keely Matthews, Shadow knight1121, JakeandAmir4Ever, Tom Phan, Agent Mississippi, LetsKeepThisLoki, SPARTAN-189, Sylverlin, SteveandSienna, Insanepyro, anon, Agent Carolina, Leonineus, The Skipper's Commandant, blitz-engel, Radioactive Sumo, lordzoabar, Darth Litarius, Eddie201, Keresa, M477, Gabe, and Ryidela. You are all amazing and I give you my deepest gratitude.

Please let me remind you that the only way I know my stories are being read and liked is from feedback. This means anything—reviews, PMs, tumblr asks, and communication on RT. As long as I keep getting feedback, I will keep writing. Please continue to enjoy these stories and let me know what you think. Suggestions, critiques, and casual conversations are always welcome. I really want to connect with all of you to make these stories the best they can be.

That being said, I hope you are as excited as I am about Season 10! I have so much planned for the stories and can't wait to publish all the insanity! :D

Much love,  
>Stella)<p>

* * *

><p>Suddenly, the Freelancers were no longer testing. They were no longer guinea pigs for new technology or robots that just trained day after day after day.<p>

They were soldiers.

The simulation troopers were placed at various locations. From Sidewinder to Sandtrap to Blood Gulch to Avalanche, these "Red" and "Blue" soldiers were at our disposal, set up entirely to train the Freelancers.

Soon, the Freelancers began to go out on fake "missions." They were either alone or in small groups. As the simulation assignments were released, all of the Freelancers would excitedly check the schedule, hoping to be assigned some sort of mission.

We all knew that they were just simulations, but it was still exhilarating for the Freelancers to get out of the ship and travel to the different bases. I was particularly excited about this change of plan; when Burns introduced the simulation trooper idea to us, he pointed out that I would tag along on each of the missions, observing the action from the sidelines and continuing my reports.

During the first mission, however, we learned about the dangers of my observations. My armor was blue, of course, so if the Red soldiers caught sight of me, they would declare that cheating was at hand and shower me with ammunition. I halfway hoped that I might receive a camouflage armor enhancement to stay invisible, but Project Freelancer wasn't so generous. Instead, I made sure to stay hidden out of sight lest the Red soldiers have heart attacks again.

The simulation missions varied widely. Some were less exciting—created purely for stealth and sneaking around—and I hardly had anything to report for a successful one considering the Freelancers crept by me unnoticed. Others, however, were created just for combat. On these missions, I would watch in awe as the Freelancers showed off their excellent battle skills, oftentimes defeating the Red and Blue soldiers within minutes.

After every mission, the Freelancers who had spent the day training normally were dying to hear about what had happened during the simulation. These dinners were my favorite part of the day—the simulation missions were not secretive in the least, so we had all the freedom we wanted to recount what had happened with the Red and Blue soldiers. Because I tagged along on every mission, I was included in all of the conversations amid jokes and laughter as we teased some Freelancers for their mistakes and complimented others on their accomplishments. I was really flattered, too, at how much the Freelancers seemed to be accepting me as part of them.

"You saw that spinning thing Penn did in the air, didn't you, Eleven?" Wes asked over dinner one of these nights. He, Pennsylvania, and Connecticut had been sent to Hang 'Em High in order to steal the hidden Red and Blue flags.

"Yeah, I saw it," I replied. "Those were some pretty sweet moves."

Penn shrugged and smiled, appreciating the praise. "Just the job."

"You can't beat that one triple somersault Maine did at Sandbox though," Bama interjected. "For such a beast, I never knew he could act like a ballerina."

Maine growled at that, unable to decide between appreciation of the compliment or annoyance at being compared to a dancer.

"Wash is more of the ballerina type," he grumbled, going back to his food.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Wash complained from beside me amid laughter.

After dinner, as we were returning our dishes, my radio beeped loudly. I jumped a little, almost dropping my plates, but set them down quickly and left the Freelancers to find a quieter area. Was Hale contacting me? I thought that we had decided that would be dangerous now…

My radio rang again as I entered the hallway outside the mess hall.

"Agent Eleven," I answered.

"Agent Eleven," a smooth voice echoed at the other end of the line. "This is the Counselor. I believe it is time for us to have that little… talk I mentioned. Would you join me in my office, please?"

It was a good thing that the Counselor couldn't see me, because my face instantly was lined with alarm. I didn't know what this was about, but I certainly knew I couldn't refuse. Perhaps the Counselor had asked me politely to join him, but that was as good as an order. He might not have been as high up on the food chain as the Director, but I had to obey his every order as well. The Director's second-in-command was not to be crossed.

"Yes, Counselor," I replied obediently. "I'll be there right away."

"Thank you," he replied in that smooth-as-oil voice. "I look forward to your arrival."

The radio clicked off and I headed toward his office immediately, heading toward the more restricted areas of the ship. I wouldn't be admitted unless the Counselor had the security system recognize me and let me through. I already had clearance to drop my reports off outside the Director's office, and that was bad enough. My presence here at Project Freelancer was becoming more and more visible the longer I stayed. While other soldiers might be ecstatic to be admitted to the higher levels, I dreaded this.

Why did the Counselor want to see me? He had mentioned, as we made the move to the ship, that he wanted to speak to me, but I had assumed he had forgotten about it. This was the first time he had made contact with me since then. Had my presence become suspicious? If so, why had the Director wanted me to live closer to the Freelancers? Why had he purposely given me my own room among them?

Unable to answer the torrent of questions clouding my mind, I simply made my way quickly to the restricted areas of the ship. FILSS let me through the system upon my telling her why I was here; the Counselor must have cleared my name.

I reached the Counselor's office and knocked quickly; the door slid open and I entered hesitantly. The Counselor sat quietly at his desk and gave me a small, pleasant smile and indicated a chair opposite his desk.

"Please, sit down."

I sat stiffly and gazed at him, composing my face into a politely interested façade.

"Now, Agent Eleven," the Counselor began. "Please tell me how you have been… adjusting."

"Sir?"

"You have needed to integrate yourself into Project Freelancer. Have you felt the transition to be… natural?"

I didn't like all the pauses that he used during his sentences. It made me feel as if he were looking for exactly the right word choice so he didn't mess up his dialogue. It made me feel self-conscious.

"Yes," I responded carefully. "Everything is going well. I feel comfortable in my station."

"And how is your documentation of the Freelancers progressing, Agent?"

"Well," I said again. "I have been documenting their training just as the Director asked."

"And you feel as if your documentation has been sufficiently… accurate?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, bewildered. Was there any reason for them to think otherwise? I worded my question carefully. "Has the Director been satisfied with my work?"

"Oh, yes," the Counselor smiled. "He is quite pleased with the amount of knowledge you have provided him. It will be quite useful."

…_For the rankings,_ I thought, finishing his sentence in my mind. But I wasn't supposed to know about those.

"You see, Agent," the Counselor continued. "We are now in the stages—"

A loud beeping noise came from his computer, and the monitor began flashing red. He looked down at it.

"One moment, please," he said, answering the call. "Yes?"

"Is she with you?" came the voice from the other end of the line. I had to force down my gasp of horror. The voice was a very recognizable slow and southern drawl.

"Yes, sir," the Counselor replied, glancing at me. "I was just about to tell her about—"

"That will be unnecessary," the Director interrupted.

"I'm sorry?" the man in front of me replied, confused. "I thought you said—"

"_Counselor,_ you should stop your incessant jabbering and listen to me."

The Counselor fell quiet, waiting for orders.

"Send her over," the Director said to him. "I will speak to her myself."


	28. Dear Director, Part II

The Director.

The Director of Project Freelancer wanted to talk to me.

I swallowed my little gasp of fear, though I was sure the Counselor had seen my brief spasm of shock.

"Very well, Director," the Counselor replied, gazing at me. "She will be over in a moment."

The Counselor shooed me from his office with a small smile as if nothing were wrong and I headed toward certain death.

Funnily enough, I made this trek every day. Each evening, I'd hand over my reports to the little box outside his office as if I were just delivering mail and escaped unnoticed.

As I approached his office (I was probably imagining it, but FILSS sounded particularly condescending as she passed me through the high-security levels), I thought frantically through my time at Project Freelancer. I had tried my best to stay in the shadows, but I had realized the Director was at least somewhat aware of me—that had occurred with his assigning me my own room near the Freelancers. He had wanted me to continue giving him his information, but that was all I knew.

I reached his doors and took a deep breath, composing myself. I was okay. I would be perfectly fine. This wasn't about to be an interrogation.

…

I wished I could lie to myself as well as I could to the Freelancers.

I had only stopped in front of the door for a few seconds before it slid open, revealing to me the Director's office. He sat at his desk, his back to me as he gazed at information on large monitors.

As I walked in, I encountered a spacious room and a large computer screen flashing with statistics and descriptions of the Freelancers. I recognized them as the reports I had been turning in to the Director since I had started working here. My mouth went dry but I mimicked what I had observed the Freelancers do every day since arriving here at the project—I stood stock-still, my hands behind my back, looking forward and not moving a muscle.

The Director ignored me for a moment, gazing at the files I had given him. Then, after I had bitten down on my lip in impatience so hard it started bleeding, he spoke.

"Agent Eleven."

"Yes, sir."

My voice sounded even enough, but, inside, I was panicking. I had no idea how to act toward the Director. Hale and I had never gone over this. We had assumed that the Director would never bother to speak to me himself; he had spent all that time conveying his directions to me through other staff members or written orders. Never did I even consider this situation occurring.

_How should I act?_ I thought frantically._ Should I be meek? Confident? Should I act like the stupid intern he thinks I am?_

Dr. Church slowly swiveled around in his chair to face me, and his piercing gaze turned my stomach to ice. I only looked into my superior's eyes for a moment before dropping them submissively.

"Look behind me, Agent," he said to me slowly. He waited a moment as I lifted my gaze to scan my observations. They were flashing differently every few moments, maximizing the information of a different Freelancer with every change. He still watched me. "Tell me how your reports have been progressing."

I had no idea what kind of answer he wanted, but I needed to say something. "They are progressing well," I said automatically, thankfully not stuttering. "The Freelancers are improving and seem to now be integrating tolerably well with their armor enhancements."

"Yes. That is what your reports have shown me." He stopped a moment, and I had a horrible feeling he was trying to make me feel uncomfortable. I tried not to squirm with edginess at his long pause before speaking again. "We have been advancing the Freelancers at a high rate, and everything has been going well."

_Oh yeah, really well,_ I thought. _Utah's enhancement testing was a raging success._

"It is time to continue our progress," Dr. Church said. "But your involvement in the project is not currently satisfactory."

Okay. That was it. I was about to be ejected from Project Freelancer.

"You see, Agent," the Director continued. "The Chairman did not give you enough credit. Your reports to me have proven that you are no idiot."

I stared at the screen behind the Director, hardly able to wrap my head around this. I wasn't being let go. The Director was… approving me. Was that possible?

"However," the Director continued. "You have been aware of how our program has been developing. In the very near future, the Freelancers' missions will become even more… advanced. We may continue the simulation trooper missions, but I am anxious to continue the training with a more… 'hands-on' approach. That being said, I am not satisfied with you simply watching from the sidelines. For these new missions, many of your orders will come directly from me. Do you understand?"

_Oh… shit_. "Yes, sir."

"Good. I am aware that you have been filing reports for your CIA records, but you will soon come to understand just how I have been using them as well. For now, however, you have not delivered your observations for today. I require those immediately…" he paused. "And a few other files as well."

"Yes, sir?" I asked. What more could he possibly need?

"Along with your daily reports, for tonight, I want you to go through your observations of every single Freelancer under my command. Sort them all. Organize them. Make a list of every Freelancer's strengths and weaknesses, and compile all the information onto a single chart, easy for access and use."

"Yes, sir," I repeated obediently, my heart sinking. "By what time do you need this?"

"It must be in my hands by 0500 tomorrow," he said brusquely, and my heart sank. There went my evening of relaxed conversation with Georgia and Bama. "It is vital for Project Freelancer's next steps. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir." I was really starting to sound repetitive, but I didn't dare say anything else to Dr. Church. I couldn't reveal to him my impending panic as I imagined just what Project Freelancer's "next steps" were.

The rankings.

"Very well," he finished, turning away from me and focusing his attention back to the enormous screens. "You are dismissed."


	29. So It Starts

I left the Director's office immediately, my mind whirring. I was almost positive that we had reached the eve of the rankings being posted, and I still had no idea what the Director was planning, or even if it were illegal. Out of the very few clues Hale and I had of Dr. Church's suspicious activity, the most prominent was the fact that he had cut me off from Hale by switching the radios.

Besides that, I had nothing. As the rankings approached, closer than ever, I couldn't help but feel that I should have come farther in my investigation. Shouldn't I know by now why the Director hadn't started sending the Freelancers out on real missions to help win the war?

As I sat at my desk back in my room, in sweats and a tank top, my papers spread out, something occurred to me. The Director never told me if these "new" missions were for training or real purposes. I supposed I just needed to wait. Ugh. I _hated _waiting.

I groaned as another small pile of papers fluttered from my desk to the ground like wounded birds. I just couldn't organize them properly here. The miniature desk in my room was far too small to hold all the pages of combat notes, statistical analyses, and charts marking each soldier's performance. I was feeling claustrophobic. I needed to spread out.

I grabbed my papers in both arms along with a desk lamp and tiptoed carefully down the silent hallway. I heard snores coming from the different rooms; I think Maine's were the loudest. I could hear him as I moved to the next hallway over.

I reached the mess hall, praying the doors were unlocked. I shoved against the doorway, and, thankfully, it gave. Reaching the first table, I released my papers, and many of them fell to the ground again.

Sighing, I picked them up and turned on the desk lamp. After double-checking that all the reports were present, I began to sort my piles according to Freelancer. My eyelids slowly drooped as I continued the tedious organizing, but I couldn't fall asleep now. The Director needed my compilation early.

Suddenly, I heard a loud crash from behind me and started, spinning around.

"Wash!"

The gray-and-yellow-clothed soldier was standing in the doorway of the kitchen picking up a large plastic tub and a spoon.

"Wash?" I repeated. "What are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you too, Eleven," he said, his snarky tone tinged with surprise. He approached the table and plopped down on the seat beside me, looking down at my papers. "What are _you_ doing down here?"

I knew I shouldn't show the Freelancer my performance reviews, but it wasn't like he didn't know all this information already. "Just sorting through all of your stats. My room's desk wasn't big enough to fit all the papers. I'm guessing _you're_ not doing work?" I asked, gesturing to his bucket.

"Oh, I'm hard at work, all right," Wash chuckled, holding the bucket and spoon out to me. "The chefs hoard the cookie dough like it's gold, so the only way to get any is to sneak it at night. Want some?"

I laughed, taking the spoon and scooping a good-sized chunk of dough into my mouth. "Thanks."

Wash peered at my face closely in the lamplight. "You look tired, Eleven."

I stifled a yawn and smiled. "Yeah, because you look so well-rested too."

"Mmm. Touché."

I turned back to my papers and he watched me, eating the cookie dough as if it were pudding. "Why don't you let me help?" he asked suddenly, placing his bucket to the side. "I could help this go faster."

"No, no, I couldn't possibly…" I responded, yawning as I did so. "I wouldn't want to make you work."

"Come on. With me it'll go twice as fast."

Before I could protest, he grabbed some of Oklahoma's papers and started a new pile. "It's not so hard, Eleven. Once we're done you'll feel so much better."

We worked together silently, and it really didn't take much time for us to finish. Once all the papers were lined in a neat stack, Wash spooned cookie dough into his mouth and watched as I compiled the statistics into a neat little list just as the Director had asked. When I was done, I laid my head down on the table, exhausted.

"Time to sleep."

Wash laughed. "Come on, Eleven, not here."

"I don't care. Too tired."

"It's not a long walk."

"I'll just stay. No big deal. Gotta turn these in soon anyway."

"Don't make me carry you. Then I'll drop all your papers on the way and you'll have to start all over."

I raised my head and rolled my eyes at his half smile. "First of all, you're too weak to carry me. Secondly, your threats suck. There is no way in hell I'm going to sort through all that again."

Wash smirked quietly as I straightened up and yawned, gathering the now neat stack of papers and the compilation in my hands. He took it from me, however.

"You're too tired to carry this." I opened my mouth, but he stopped me. "Don't argue. You're about to yawn right… now."

I yawned.

Wash laughed again. "Let's get this stuff to your room."

"They're not going to my room," I said. "I have to turn them in to the Director."

"Oh yeah. You go to the high-security levels for that."

"Thanks for the help, though. I can take it from here."

"Well, that's a shitload of stuff to carry. I can help."

"Wash, you can't go up to the Director's office."

"No, but I can go at least part of the way."

I raised an eyebrow. "Don't you want to go to bed?"

Wash shrugged. "It's not a big deal. I'd be happy to help."

I was actually really thankful he had decided to assist me in carrying all the papers. After Wash returned the cookie dough to the kitchen, we split the load and that made it easier to keep the observations orderly. Soon, we had reached the high-security levels and I took all the papers from him; it was much harder to balance it all neatly by myself.

After I had delivered the reports, I returned to the low-security levels, and, to my surprise, Wash was still standing there.  
>"I thought you had gone to bed," I commented, surprised. "Why'd you wait for me?"<p>

He shrugged again, avoiding my gaze. "Guess if you want to be alone next time, you can just say so."

I laughed. "Don't worry, I don't think you're _that_ repulsive."

"Oh, well that's a relief."

Once we were at the Freelancer residence hallway, I stopped before heading to my room.

"Thanks, Wash," I said to the Freelancer. "I appreciate the help."

"No problem. As long as you don't get me in trouble for stealing the cookie dough, we're all good."

"I can't make any promises," I replied cheekily. I looked up at him, expecting him to chuckle along with me, but he looked distracted.

"Wash, are you o—"

"Eleven?" he interrupted quickly, turning his gaze to me. He seemed agitated.

I frowned a little. "Yes?"

"You—you know… you never paid me back for dinner."

I blinked, nonplussed. "Uh… no, you're right. Are you going to let me do that now?"

He nodded, so I reached down to my armor belt, attempting to pull out money. However, he stopped me, placing his hand over my wrist.

"N—not like that," he replied nervously.

"Uh… how, then?"

He swallowed hard. "Like this."

He cupped his hands around my jawline, and, in one swift movement, he kissed me.

My body froze. Wash's lips were pressed against mine, and though my senses flared up in alarm… I didn't pull away.

Almost as soon as it had started, Wash broke the kiss. We both stared at each other, utterly bewildered.

"That was…" Wash gulped breathlessly. "That was completely against protocol."

I could hardly speak myself. "Y—yes. It was."

We gazed at each other for a moment, both our faces revealing a combination of nervousness, embarrassment, and shock.

Then, Wash set his jaw and seemed to make up his mind about something. I cocked my head, opening my mouth to ask him what he was thinking, but he cut me off and brought his lips to mine again.

He wrapped his hands around my waist and pulled me close, the kiss becoming more confident. Part of me screamed to get away—this was against the rules, I could get kicked out, the Director would discover it…

Then the second part of me shoved the first down a hole and told it to shut the hell up.

I didn't care.


	30. The Rankings, Part I

"I can't believe I just did that," Wash uttered after the kiss, horror-struck.

"I know."

"This is wrong."

"I know."

"We can't do this."

"I know."

"…I still want to."

I paused. "Me, too."

Wash and I had spoken in soft, urgent voices until we became paranoid that every creak and groan of the ship was a staff member ready to detain us both.

"We…" I had no idea what to say. Wash's face was lined with anxiety at the boundary he had just crossed. "No one has to know," I said quietly, craning my neck to peer down the hall. "We can keep this quiet. Let's just go before someone walks in on us, okay?"

Wash nodded, smiling a little bit despite his obvious concern. "G'night, Eleven. I—thanks."

I flashed him a small smile in return and squeezed his hand slightly. "See you in the morning."

Without another word, I turned and hurried back down the hall, grateful that all of the doors seemed to be closed.

…Except one.

Georgia's door was ajar. I peeked into the doorway and glimpsed both Georgia and Bama sitting inside. Once they saw me, they sprang up from her bed, swung open the door, and pulled me inside before I could react.

"What are you—" I gasped as Georgia clicked the door shut.

_"What the hell was that?"_ Bama asked incredulously. Georgia's eyes were wide.

"What was what?" I responded, my stomach dropping to the floor.

"Oh, don't pretend like we didn't just see that whole thing_. That!_ With Wash!"

"I…" I faltered, falling into the chair at Georgia's desk, crumbling. "Shit."

"You told us you had to work tonight," Georgia said. "That's why we wouldn't be able to hang out."

"I did!" I insisted. "I already told you, the Director needed me to turn in a shitload of info for tomorrow. I just went to work in the mess hall to have more space. How was I supposed to know that Wash would be there too?"

Bama laughed. "Or that you two would be smooching in the hallway later on…"

My face burned. "That—that's probably the last time that'll happen. He freaked out afterward about how it was against the rules."

She smirked. "He always has been a little goodie-two-shoes…"

"Listen," I said to them earnestly. "I didn't know things would end up like that tonight. I bet it won't happen again. I can't afford to get kicked out of here, and he's really paranoid."

Bama rolled her eyes. "Yeah. That's going to last about a day."

"You just have to be careful, okay, Eleven?" Georgia responded gently. "Be really careful, but don't throw this opportunity away."

"No, seriously," I replied. "There's no way we could—"

"Eleven," Georgia interrupted softly. "Just because this is a job—just because we're in the military—doesn't mean that we're not human or have feelings. I'm not telling you what you should do, but… just think about it."

* * *

><p>The next morning, Georgia, Bama, Wes, Del and I all grabbed breakfast.<p>

"Um, do you guys want to go sit at the far table today?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "The others are kind of crowded."

That was definitely not true, and Georgia and Bama definitely shot me smug, knowing looks as they saw who was seated at the far table. Wes and Del shrugged and headed over, and I followed, not looking at the girls.

Yeah. I had no excuses.

As I sat down next to the gray-and-yellow Freelancer, York and North looked over at Wash and began grinning.

"Good morning," North said kindly to us, a hint of amusement in his tone. "How are all of you?"

We responded with the usual "goods" and "fines" before turning to other topics of conversation, but I wasn't really paying attention. I was painfully aware of the Freelancer beside me. Any time he brushed his arm against mine or nudged me in conversation or even just smiled.

Shit. This had not been a good idea.

However, Wash was acting normally enough. He kept joking and laughing and being the annoyingly perky morning person that he was.

The training day passed as usual. I took my notes and, at the end of the day, walked by the mess hall to approach the high-security levels. However, when I peeked inside the cafeteria, no one was sitting and eating happily, as I expected.

Instead, the Freelancers were crowded around a large screen that showed a glowing list. I gasped.

"Eleven, do you know anything about this?" demanded a group of Freelancers, noticing me join their group and seeing my mortified expression. "What the hell is this?"

The screen blazed bright blue, six state names shining white in large, bold letters. Below the six names were the rest of the states, all organized in a precise and specific order.

"The rankings," I murmured, horrified.

The leader board read:

**1. Carolina**

**2. York**

**3. Wyoming**

**4. South Dakota**

**5. North Dakota**

**6. Washington**

The Freelancers were bickering angrily, checking their rankings in the list and fuming at their positions. I willed myself to find my friends' names scattered throughout the rankings, and my jaw dropped as I saw Georgia at the very bottom.

More Freelancers were now staring at me upon hearing that I had been aware of this before.

I gazed at them guiltily. "I… the Director has been using the CIA's reports about all of you to form his own ranking system."

"You… you knew about this all along?" Illinois gaped.

I nodded miserably.

"So this is why you're here?" Nebraska hissed. "Just to help the Director pit us against each other?"

"No!" I replied, alarmed. The Freelancers' dirty stares, once aimed at the ranking board, were now directed at me. I looked through the group and saw one pale blue figure standing smugly to the side; Carolina didn't seem surprised at all about this change of events, and I suddenly thought I knew just what she had been discussing with the Director when I had caught her outside his office. "I'm not the one ranking you! The Director is! He's just using my reports as statistical information for his system."

They paid me no attention.

"You lied to us!"

"You're ranking us. You're helping him grade us!"

"You said you were just collecting general information!"

"That's exactly what I'm doing!" I protested. "I did exactly what I told you I would! I swear to you, I'm not the one doing this! The Director created some sort of system—"

"You're lying!"

"No, I'm not! I'm just giving him the raw data about your battles, and he's the one putting you in order!"

"What do you say about us in those reports?" Bama demanded, coming toward the front of the group. I jumped at her harsh tone toward me.

"You want to look at one?" I snarled back. "I'm probably not supposed to do this, but I'll be damned if I'm going to be considered a liar around here!"

I pulled out the first file from my manila folder without actually looking at whose report it was.

"Look, here's Carolina," I said hastily, glancing down at it and handing it to the others. "You can see that I'm not being partial at all. The Director's using the basic information I have and then making the decisions on his own."

Everyone knew that Carolina and I did not particularly get along, and they crowded around me more tightly. Carolina entered the middle of the group and grabbed the performance review; she read aloud my analysis of her excellent martial arts, stealth, and general combat skills. I also included her weaknesses—she had a tendency of wanting to do everything herself and had trouble taking orders from her peers.

"But Carolina's ranked number one right now," New Mexico protested. "Of course you're going to give her a good report."

"Fine," I retorted. "You want to see another?"

This time, I pulled Georgia's performance review from the pile. Because she was ranked last, the Freelancers pressed in even tighter to hear her small voice read out the review. Again, I praised her battle skills, ability to cooperate with other soldiers, and fast reflexes, at the same time including her flaws: she was not assertive nor was she physically as strong as she could be.

The faces of some of the Freelancers lightened somewhat; this was all information of which they were already aware. That was exactly what I had _said._

The Freelancers begged to see their own performance reviews, but I took Carolina's and Georgia's away from them and tucked the papers in my folder.

"You all know your own strengths and weaknesses. Besides, I've broken the rules enough already," I said to them, avoiding the gaze of the Freelancer ranked number six.


	31. The Rankings, Part II

After I repeatedly attempted to convince the Freelancers that I was innocent—well, in terms of the rankings, at least—the crowd eventually dispersed. Some Freelancers still gazed at me coldly, while others only looked disappointed in themselves. Carolina still seemed unaffected, of course, along with the others on the leader board. She and York were together, talking as if nothing had happened. North and Wash looked a little embarrassed at being singled out, but not upset; South and Wyoming both had smug smirks painted on their faces. I finally was able to make my way toward my group of friends, who were all standing stonily near the large screen.

When I reached them, they turned to me, each face a different emotion. Bama's was still somewhat indignant, her eyes narrowing as I approached. Wes looked worried, Del confused, and Georgia just upset. She stared at the floor, unable to make eye contact with me.

"You could have told us," Bama said coldly. "If you knew what was happening."

"I'm so sorry," I replied regretfully. "I would have, but_ I_ wasn't even supposed to know. The only reason I was aware of it was because my boss figured it out. The Director wouldn't share something like that with me."

"So you're sure you didn't know what our spots were going to be?" Del asked. "You promise?"

"I promise," I swore. I grabbed Georgia's arm and she looked up at me sadly. "You don't deserve that spot on the rankings, Georgia. I would have placed you higher if I had the power. You know that."

The Freelancers were quiet.

"Please," I pleaded. I couldn't lose every friend that I had made here over this. "Please believe me."

After a moment of unease, Wes spoke up.

"I believe you," he said simply. "We read those reports. Just based on what you said, Georgia or Carolina could have been number one."

Del nodded, and Bama sighed.

"He's right," she consented. Georgia looked up and nodded as well, giving me a small smile.

I gave a huff of relief. "Oh my God. Thank you so much. I just… you have no idea how much I've been dreading this day. If you guys didn't believe me, no one would."

We spent a little while longer discussing the recent changes in the program with the rankings: how much more on edge the Freelancers would be, how the competition would increase, how unbearable Carolina's ego would become.

"You mean Carolina's ego is bearable right now?" Del asked, rolling his eyes.

I finally left them to go and say hello to a specific member of the leader board. I sidled up to him casually and nudged his arm as he spoke to North.

"Hey," I said to them. "Congrats on the rankings."

They both shrugged a little, obviously not really wanting to talk about it.

"It's just going to pit the other Freelancers against us," North said. "I don't get why he's doing this."

"I don't either," I said honestly. "I guess we'll find out, right?"

North nodded and wandered off to find his sister, leaving me and Wash together.

"Did you really know about all this?" he asked.

I nodded sadly. "Yes. I wasn't supposed to know, but I did. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Wash said. "If you'd been able to rank us, I know you would have shoved me at the bottom of the list."

I grinned. "You know me so well."

He laughed and reached over discreetly, brushing his hand against my arm.

I shivered a little. "So… so you don't hate me, then?"

Wash chuckled. "No. I don't think I do."

We were certainly standing much closely than normal acquaintances would as we conversed, but I didn't think that the other Freelancers were paying attention.

I looked around just to make sure and saw Bama and Georgia staring at us smugly.

They were right. Wash and I hadn't lasted a day before starting to talk to each other again.

How embarrassing. _Unprofessional._

* * *

><p>Despite my proof that I was not the one ranking the Freelancers, a portion of the soldiers refused to speak to me. Some even took the opposite route and began sucking up to me in order to change their positions. Arizona in particular took to complimenting me each morning in exaggerated politeness, but I knew this would not help the Freelancer at all.<p>

Even worse, people began to suspect me and Wash. We started sitting together at meals much too frequently and would spend time in the lounge together after training days, just sitting near each other and talking. We were tempted to transfer the conversations to one of our rooms, but we limited the time in each other's sleeping areas to quick kisses. We didn't want to rouse suspicion.

However, as hard as we tried to stay inconspicuous, the Freelancers weren't stupid, and many of them found this development to be highly displeasing. One evening, I was walking by the lounge on the way to my room and heard Wash and South arguing.

"Don't pretend like you actually care about that stupid CIA Agent," South spat.

"Shut up, South," Wash snapped back. "Don't talk about her like that."

"You think that screwing around with her is going to get you number one, don't you?"

"Being with her isn't going to change my spot on the leader board. What's it to anyone who I date anyway?"

Wash and I realized that all the Freelancers had discovered us from his conversation with South, so we eventually stopped hiding our… what could we call this? A relationship? We began talking more openly and even visiting each other's rooms before going to bed.

"I think it's actually not so bad that the other Freelancers know," Wash had said to me when I questioned him about our decisions. "We just need to keep this from the Director and his closest staff members. Those are the only people I care about. The Freelancers can deal with it. Besides, they _should_ know that you're mine." He was pretending to sound confident, but I knew his protocol-loving conscience was screaming at him to drop me before he got fired.

He didn't.

* * *

><p>As time passed and the training continued, the rankings did not change. Thankfully, this dispelled some of the Freelancers' resentment toward me as they realized what little power I had in altering their spots on the list. They even became accustomed to me and Wash once they realized the gray-and-yellow soldier's leader board position hadn't changed for the better either. After all, what would they do? Report us?<p>

Right. With everything that happened behind the scenes with the Freelancers, they didn't dare call us out in front of anyone important. Each Freelancer had his or her dirty little secret, and no one wanted to get caught, so it was an unspoken rule among the group not to rat anyone out for performing illegal actions. If that had happened, the Freelancers all would have been kicked out of the project within weeks of it starting.

Therefore, the Freelancers continued training. They continued the simulations. The ranks stayed the same. I took notes on their performances. Things seemed normal.

Too normal.

As soon as I started wondering what the Director was waiting for, however, I received an instant answer. One morning, where the simulation missions were usually posted, we received a surprise:

_Attention Project Freelancer: New Mission Assignment_

_Objective: Classified data collection_

_Operatives: North Dakota (5), South Dakota (4)_

_Region: __Bj__ø__rndal Biogenics Research Facility, Arctic Ocean, Earth_

I stared at the posting. This was no simulation.

The real missions were beginning.

The Freelancers were abuzz with this new assignment. South was enjoying the attention, while North was quiet and pensive. They both knew this was the first non-simulated mission ever assigned through Project Freelancer—at least, the first that I knew about. The Director might have been sending his soldiers out on missions behind my back. If he had arranged a secret meeting with Carolina to tell her she was number one, I had no doubts that Dr. Church might have given his top employees missions about which I was unaware as well.

Whether this was the first real Project Freelancer mission or not, the twins had a large weight on their shoulders. The other Freelancers buzzed excitedly about what "classified data collection" might mean, but I was less than excited. If we weren't allowed to know what was in those files, then my suspicions of the Director were heightened significantly.

Wash saw me watching the mission posting quietly among the other jabbering Freelancers. I did not have a good feeling about this.

"Something wrong?" he asked, coming up beside me.

"I don't know," I said. I must have looked worried. "What could those classified files be?"

"I'm sure they're something that will benefit our side of the war," Wash reassured me. "We just have to trust the Director. Don't worry, Ells."

I stopped for a moment, forgetting about the mission. "What?"

Wash looked at me questioningly.

"What did you just call me?"

"Ells. Cute nickname, huh?"

"Yeah," I blushed, looking down and smiling. "I like it."


	32. The Twins, Part I

"Agent Eleven."

I almost choked on my food, sitting straight up in my chair as I recognized that distinct southern twang. Swallowing as quickly as possible, I turned away from my now-staring friends and answered the call.

"Y—yes, sir?"

The Director had never contacted me personally through radio before.

"Come to my office immediately," he commanded.

"Yes, sir." I said instantly. The Director shut off the connection and all I could hear was static. We were only halfway through dinner, but I couldn't stay to finish the meal. I bid the others goodbye after telling them who had called and hurried toward the high-security levels.

Once again, the doors to the Director's office slid open before I had time to knock. I walked in and stood at attention; both the Counselor and the Director were present. Without so much as an introduction, my superior began to speak, standing up in front of his large computer screens and gazing at them.

"Tomorrow's mission will require thorough investigation and analysis," The Director said. "You will not be using papers as you have done in the past." The Counselor picked up a small device from the desk and handed it to me.

"We are providing you with further technology in order to make your reports more efficient," the Counselor explained, gesturing to my left forearm. "Connect the device there." I did so, and a holographic keyboard shone green, floating a comfortable distance in front of me. I lifted up my hands and pressed lightly on the image. Although I could not feel any keys beneath my fingers, as I typed, the characters I touched glowed brightly and appeared translucently in the air just above the keyboard.

"You may enter your observations into your armor and deliver the reports to my office at the end of each day," the Director continued, still gazing at the screens in front of him. "When you reach my office, you may transfer the data via a memory drive just beside the speaker leading into my room."

They must have wanted hard copies of the reports until they could trust me with expensive technology.

"Th—thank you, sir," I stammered, strangely flattered. Never had I expected that I might receive any devices for myself.

The Director did not seem to hear me and continued to speak. "You have been accompanying the Freelancers on their simulation missions, but that will not be possible tomorrow. The security risk is too great, and we cannot afford to fail. These data files are imperative to the success of the next stages of Project Freelancer."

I was quiet, still staring straight forward at the Director's screens.

"Tomorrow, as North and South Dakota are departing for the mission, you will track their movements and write your normal reports in the presence of myself and The Counselor. Understood, Agent?"

I swallowed, still not moving. "Affirmative."

"Good." The Director seemed to lose interest in his little CIA stooge. "I expect you at the planning deck on the high-security levels tomorrow for the Freelancers' debriefing. Then, you will return to that area as soon as they leave. You are dismissed."

"Yes, sir." I said, turning around quickly and exiting his office, frowning beneath my helmet. Normally, when I took notes, I was in the observation area of the training room or sitting on the sidelines of a simulation trooper mission. Either way, I was _alone_ as I wrote the reports, and I always preferred it that way. Now, I was under pressure. The Counselor and Director would be breathing down my neck as I reported on North and South's actions. The very thought of it made me shudder.

"What happened?" Bama asked me as I rejoined the Freelancers. They were just leaving the mess hall and returning to their rooms for the evening. "What'd the Director want?"

"He just told me a little about the mission," I replied as we passed our rooms and decided to sit in the lounge for a bit.

"So do you know what's in the data files they're supposed to be collecting?" York inquired. Recently, my friends and I had begun to spend more time with three additional Freelancers; we were now sitting on the couch with York, North and Wash. Carolina had not been pleased by York's recent choice of friends.

I shook my head. "I know as much as you do in that area. All he said was that I wouldn't be coming with them on the mission but would be watching with the Director and Counselor from the planning deck. And he gave me this." I switched on my data collector, typing _WASH SMELLS LIKE A BABOON_ in front of us.

"Looks like you got your own armor enhancement," Georgia laughed. "Who knew?"

"I know. I couldn't believe it," I replied, deleting the comment before it could get saved. Wash poked me good-naturedly, pretending to be offended.

"That sucks, though," Del piped in. "That you have to take notes in front of the Director. He's gonna watch every move you make. How nasty."

"Tell me about it," I complained, shutting off my hologram. "I'm doing fine all by myself."

"Well, imagine how we feel," North said. "We're the ones actually being written up."

"True," I consented. "But I think you'll be fine. You'll be with your best partner."

North glanced up at South, who was chatting on the other side of the room with Connecticut. "That's exactly what worries me."

* * *

><p>South and North were given the day off from training in order to sleep in and prepare for their mission. They would not depart until after midnight, and I attended their debriefing before they left. Afterward, the twins departed to organize their air transport with one of the pilots, and I had a few precious hours with my friends until the mission began.<p>

By the time the twins were about to travel to Earth, some of the Freelancers were already asleep; however, most of them had decided to stay up and wait until they heard back from their colleagues. I wished I could spend the time waiting with my friends, but I reluctantly left them to return back to the planning deck. I had a job to do.

"Welcome, Agent," the Counselor said smoothly when I arrived. His dark skin shone as the lights of the large monitors flashed. A screen saver shone on the monitors—a black background fraught with the Freelancer triplicate symbol. "Did FILSS allow you to this area without issues?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

I stood far behind the two men on the other end of a large, dark table as I watched them prepare for the upcoming mission. Finally, the Counselor strode up to the Director as the screen saver melded into a list of the top six Freelancers. I watched them silently, flashing my holographic keyboard in front of me.

"Our operatives are in position, Director," The Counselor informed the Director as he received the transmission from the pilot flying their transport. They referred to her as a number, too: 479er.

"Good," the Director replied. "Send them in."


	33. The Twins, Part II

The Counselor, facing me, reached over to a row of controls and pulled up a holographic replica of the research facility, shining small thermal bodies wherever guards patrolled the location. I had never heard of this building before this mission was assigned, and I had also never heard that it was a threat to the war's cause. I had no idea why we were taking information, but I held my tongue.

"If I may say, sir, my testing indicates that this might not be the best… team for the job," the Counselor commented carefully after the hologram had loaded.

"The system will determine what's best, Counselor," the Director replied firmly. "The system will determine the order." He turned and leaned against the table, gazing at the hologram. "Send them in."

The Counselor transmitted North and South the signal to enter the research facility. I watched the hologram as two small Freelancer figures landed on the top of the research facility's tallest tower and began scaling the walls, separating and hopping to their appropriate locations. I began taking notes immediately, typing silently on my glowing keyboard.

North picked a prime location to watch South's back; he perched on a large grated steam tower. I embellished his report with a few favorable notes. That was probably the best hideout he could have picked given the circumstances.

I turned my attention to South, who approached two guards and took care of them effortlessly, killing one by violently stringing him on the ceiling. I raised an eyebrow as she lured the other out of his safe location, disguising her voice and knocking him from his post easily.

"Unnecessary," the Director muttered, mirroring exactly what I was typing. She hadn't really needed to kill those men. A simple KO would have sufficed. _Show-off._

"What's the time?" she asked in a low voice, snaking her way through the guards. The twins' radios had been connected to mine so I could report on their communication as well as their actions.

"Don't worry about the time," North said patiently. "Worry about the objective. Next patrol's in twenty seconds."

South scoffed. "I'll be gone before that."

"Okay, _slow down_, South," her brother insisted. "Set your motion trackers."

South jumped from a ledge and knocked out another guard instantaneously, stealing his weapon. "Nah. Takes too long."

She careened inside the facility, ignoring North's continued guidance. I rolled my eyes at the stupid bitch. If she didn't start listening to North, they'd both get killed. She _needed_ him to watch her movements.

Narrowly missing another incident—and while she was in the _same room_ as other guards—she began initiating the data transfer. Was she completely out of her mind?

"South, I got something odd on thermal," North said urgently. "Two small dots."

"Come on, come on…" she muttered, refusing to leave.

I saw what was approaching her. A man carrying two cups of coffee. I reached up to activate my radio and signal to South that someone was coming, but the Director held up a hand.

"Do not interfere," he stated shortly. I immediately returned my hand to the keyboard, watching anxiously.

As the man entered, South spun around and pointed her gun at him. There was a brief silence in which we all simply stared, holding our breaths as the coffee guy glanced nervously at the alarm not three feet away from him.

The guard lunged for the button but hardly had a chance to lift a finger before South shot him; however, his momentum continued his body in the same direction and he hit the alarm.

We were caught.

After grabbing the transferred data files, both South and North made a run for it.

"So much for keeping quiet," North said almost genially, smashing two guards' heads together. I had no idea how he could put up with his clod of a sister so tolerantly. "South, meet me at the helipad for extraction."

I chanced a glance up to the Director's face; he had not moved, but his eyes were narrowed in distaste as North and South began to escape the research facility.

"Their training has served them well," the Counselor commented as the twins fought their way through the attacking guards with relative ease. I had to admit that their teamwork was flawless.

"Not well enough, Counselor," Dr. Church replied darkly. "Not well enough. South's idiocy may compromise this entire mission."

I continued taking notes, commenting on South's rash actions and immaturity. She thought she could handle everything on her own and impress the Director. How wrong she had been.

The two purple Freelancers were now outside at the helipad. To my horror, men surrounded them, all pointing their guns toward the intruders. I let out a small gasp, and the Counselor looked at me.

"They seem to be outnumbered," the Counselor stated.

The Director closed his eyes for a moment. "Thank you for that _stunning_ revelation, Counselor."

"Director? Director, do you copy?" A radio control trooper contacted my superior as the screen in front of us began flashing red for North's and South's names on the leader board.

"Affirmative."

"Situation is critical, sir. Should we do something?" he asked.

"Yes," the Director replied thoughtfully. He paused. "Send her in."

I frowned, looking through the debriefing files on my holo-database. I hadn't been informed of a plan B when the twins and I had gone over the mission.

"Come in, Number One," the trooper was stating. "Number One, you are green."

The Director was quiet as he spoke next.

"Activate failsafe."

"Copy, sir. Initiating Beta protocol…"

I stared at them, wondering what in the hell was going on, but the Director ignored me. Deciding to turn my attention to the holographic facility in front of me, I noticed not two Freelancers in the helipad area… but three.

Her thermal signature was radiating for our vision, her armor blending in perfectly with the metal of the facility. I paused in my typing as the Freelancer snuck through the line of guards unnoticed. Scanning through my files quickly, I tried remembering which Freelancers had the camouflage armor enhancement. Glancing back up at the facility's hologram, my eyes fell on the screen behind it to the top of the leader board.

Number One.

Carolina had appeared.


	34. ANNOUNCEMENT

Hello, everyone!

Firstly, I'd like to thank you all for your patience. I know it has been a long time since I last updated, and I am thrilled that you are still interested in knowing Eleven's story. So... now, I have probably the most important announcement I've ever made to my readers.

As all of you know, I have spent this period of time working to complete _Before the Recon_. However, as I wrote the story, I found it going farther and farther from the plot of Project Freelancer and almost into its own realm.

Because of this, I have decided to discontinue _Before the Recon_. I am now transforming it into its own, original work, and I am going to attempt to publish it. Like a real author! :P

I realize that doing this to all of you who have stuck with me for so long is completely unfair. To make up for this, I am opening the floor to requests. If there are any scenes from Seasons 9 and 10 you'd like me to write about, I will be happy to do so. For example, I know one reader who is dying to see what happens next with North and his energy shield. If she requests that, I will most certainly write it in the same style as the rest of _Before the Recon_. So, in short, if there is anything of _Before the Recon _that you would love to see—behind-the-scenes Freelancer interaction, specific scenes from Seasons 9/10, or anything else you don't think I've done enough justice—I will fulfill your requests and update the story each week. This will continue for as long as people submit requests.

As for the original story... well... you know, Agent Eleven is my own character. While she was created for RvB fanfiction, she can exist in any world I want. The novel I'm writing is also from her point of view, but happens in a completely different universe!

I am very, very excited to be writing a real, publishable novel, and I hope that all of you—my amazing readers and reviewers—will stick with me as this project goes to completion. I would never be at this point without your support and hope that you continue to enjoy my writing.

So, there you go! Remember, _After the Recon_ remains unchanged, and updates will still occur weekly.

Again, thank you so much, and I look forward to receiving your requests!

Yours,

Stella Holland


	35. Request 1: North Dakota, Agent Badass

( This first request is by DaJazzGal. The scene occurs at the end of the twins' Season 9 opener mission. Enjoy! )

* * *

><p>"Package is secure," Carolina barked through her radio. "Everyone on board."<p>

After a sharp order from the Director, the Counselor hurriedly turned off the hologram of the research facility. My two superiors turned to the large screens behind them and switched on the transmission function. Instantly, the video cameras on board the transport ship—479er's Pelican—provided us scattered angles of the inside of the ship so we could observe the Freelancers.

I almost wanted to start pacing, but I restrained myself. I had almost shrieked as poor North had been shot back at the research facility. His attempt to save his irritating, ungrateful sister had gotten him injured, and I couldn't tear my eyes from him. He was out cold, his wounds obvious beneath his armor. If he... if he was unable to recover... I was unsure what I would do. North didn't deserve this fate. He didn't deserve getting hurt because of South's idiocy.

_Come on, North... wake up..._

"Shall I check their status, sir?" the Counselor asked. Both of their backs were to me as they stared at the monitors.

"I shall put their transmission into… other hands," the Director replied coldly. "FILSS, please make contact with Agent Carolina."

"Yes, sir," a smooth female voice said. I smirked behind them; apparently, the Director had grown tired of his right-hand man for the moment.

"And," the Director added. "Do not answer any questions about the unusual head count, FILSS."

"Affirmative."

As the computer program made contact with the Pelican, I frowned and stared at the small screen indicating how many employees were on the mission. For some reason, four Freelancer positions were blinking in blue:

_Agent 1: -Confirmed-_

_Agent 2: -Confirmed-_

_Agent 3: -Confirmed-_

_Agent 4: -Data Missing-_

I took a deep breath, daring to open my mouth. I could ask about this. This information was something I needed for my records. The Director could recognize that… right?

"Excuse me, sir," I said in a small voice. "Why is there an extra Freelancer indicated on this mission?"

The Director did not even turn to me. "I just told FILSS not to answer Carolina's questions regarding the matter, Agent. What makes you believe that I will answer yours?"

My face burned in embarrassment, but before I could apologize, South's voice cut me off.

"Heads up! We've got company back here!"

Focusing our cameras behind the ship, we discovered the Pelican was being followed.

The enemies began firing, and chaos ensued. I stared with horror as the Pelican and its adversaries played a dangerous game, swooping around and aiming deadly weapons at each other. South was bouncing around in the back like a ragdoll, and as she fell unconscious, North woke. I would have broken into a smile if the Freelancers hadn't been about to be demolished by their pursuers.

"Carolina," growled the Director. "Agent North is awake. Take evasive action. Clear him for equipment usage."

Carolina didn't hesitate. "Counter measures depleted. North, get moving. I'm clearing you for equipment usage."

"Got it," North grunted quietly; I doubted Carolina could hear his reply. He lifted his restraints over his head and stumbled over to South. With some effort, he placed her in the seat instead and strapped her in. "Stay safe, kiddo."

My eyes were wide as he stumbled toward the exit above him, ripping off his helmet. He couldn't do this. Not after what happened to Utah. He would die out there as the missiles flew into him.

Once outside, North staggered away from the exit. His breaths were heavy, but he straightened up, his eyes determined as he stared out.

"Well, here goes nothing."

The enemies fired their final round, and I couldn't breathe. Each missile would make a direct hit on the Pelican no matter how amazing 479er's flight skills were.

I almost spied a curt smirk on North's face as he reached up and positively pounded his fist into the Pelican.

Where there should have been an exploding pile of twisted metal fraught with missiles, North's energy shield had blocked every single enemy shot. The Pelican spiked downward from the force of the blast, and I let out my held breath quickly, my eyes never leaving North. His legs shook from the effort of staying upright as he struggled to control his armor enhancement, his mouth clenched in concentration.

"There's the rendezvous," Carolina was saying to 479er. "If we're going to make it you better punch it."

I let out a low breath. "Looks like North already did."

The Director did not react to my comment, though the Counselor let out a small chuckle.

"They are almost at the rendezvous," he commented. North fell back inside the Pelican with a loud thump and groaned, trying and failing to sit up. His bravery had drained all of his energy, and I could see the holes riddled through his armor were leaking blood profusely.

Soon, I saw the _Mother of Invention_ from the Pelican's cameras. They were back. _Thank God._

"Agent," the Director said shortly. "Go to the medical bay and report on North's injuries now."

"Yes, sir." I turned promptly and left the room, thankful to be out of my superiors' intense presences. I could report better on the Freelancers anyway now that they were landing back on the ship. I practically ran to the med bay, my holographic keyboard bouncing along beside me.

When I arrived, South and Carolina were staring silently through the large window leading into the stabilization room. A few other Freelancers had joined the group upon word that the mission had finished as well, and they were all watching North with worry. I was strongly reminded of the throng of soldiers who had waited outside during Utah's accident, but I tried not to think about that.

North was lying on a hospital bed, unconscious. I passed the Freelancers hastily to enter the med room, knocking on the door quickly.

"They won't let you in," Carolina said icily. "They said no one—"

"Agent Eleven," one of the medics said quickly when the door opened. "Dr. Church said you would be arriving. Come right in."

I smirked at Carolina briefly before striding in the room.

"Make sure he's okay!" South said quickly in an uncharacteristically high-pitched voice. I didn't have time to respond as the doors snapped shut, but I saluted at her through the window to indicate I had heard her concern.

I approached North, carefully avoiding any equipment and staying out of the medical team's way.

"How is he?" I asked, readying my hands on my hologram again.

"Stable," a medic responded. "His injuries weren't too bad, actually. I couple shots got through his armor, but no bullets embedded in his flesh. I doubt he'll even have scars from this one. The main problem was blood loss, but we have him all set now. He's not in any life-threatening danger."

"Good to hear," I replied, typing away. "Do you know when he'd be ready for action again?"

The medic thought. "I'm not sure. It depends on how he feels when he wakes up. Like I said, this wasn't a major injury. It shouldn't be long."

I raised my head in the window's direction and shot South a thumbs-up. She nodded back, still shaking slightly.

"Thanks for the report, uh…" I continued. "I'm sorry—What's your name?"

"Just call me Matt," he said genially, turning back to North, who groaned and stirred suddenly.

"North!" I said quickly, getting as close as I dared to where he lay. "Are you all right?"

He moaned again as the medics attended to him. "Ugh… I got shot."

I couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Good observation. You also saved the whole mission."

"And got shot," he repeated, laughing weakly. "Nice to wake up to a friendly face, though, Eleven. I'm guessing everyone else made it back in one piece?"

"Yep," I smiled. "All thanks to you."

"Don't thank me just yet," he smirked. "I'm full of holes at the moment. You know what I would like, though?"

"Hmm?"

"It's great to see you, really. But… I just want to see my sister. She got knocked around back in the ship."

Typical North. He had almost died getting shot and using his bubble shield, yet he was still worried about his dumb sister. I looked over at Matt, who hesitated for a moment.

"Well… well, okay," he relented. "But I just want one guest in here at a time."

"Of course," I replied, looking over at South, who was staring unblinkingly at North, every muscle tense.

Upon exiting the room, I told South she was allowed to enter. Of course, she acted like she didn't care about the news, but she nevertheless hurried inside and stuck by North intently, getting in the way of the medics and refusing to leave his side.

I smiled as I watched them. Mission accomplished.


	36. Request 2: Wash's Locker

( LeannaTrizzle wanted to see something about Wash and cats. In lieu of recent episodes, I decided to post that request next. )

* * *

><p>I tapped my foot impatiently in the doorway of the locker room.<p>

"Come on already," I whined. "We don't have all night."

"You can wait for two seconds," Wash replied, opening up his locker. "You've been waiting for me all day. A little longer couldn't hurt."

I frowned and crossed my arms, sighing heavily. Wash looked over at me and grinned, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. "C'mere."

I reluctantly approached him. When I was within arm's reach, he grabbed me and pulled me close, planting a kiss on my cheek.

"You act like I'm such a bother," he chuckled into my ear.

"You are."

"Then drop me already."

I growled good-naturedly. "Maybe I will."

"You sound so sure of yourself." He let go and I sat on the bench, saving all of my day's reports to my armor and shutting it down.

"The one day Barbara stops training early, you waste time working out," I grumbled. "We could already be watching Grifball in the lounge with the others if you weren't so freaking dedicated to your job." I glanced up at him. "_And_ you took that shower without me."

"Believe me, there are going to be plenty more showers," Wash smirked, pulling on a gray t-shirt with yellow trim. "But I knew you'd want me to hurry up, so I hurried."

"Fair enough." I stretched widely and yawned, glancing inside his locker. Frowning, I squinted at two pictures I hadn't noticed before.

"Who are they?" I commented, pointing.

Wash's eyes followed my finger and he unstuck two cat pictures from his locker. "Oh, yeah. These are—" He stopped. "They _were _mine."

"You didn't tell me you had cats."

He sighed and sat down, rubbing a hand through his hair. "That Siamese is Sasha, and the one with black patches is Hartford. Before I got hired to Freelancer, you know how I had my own place? That apartment?"

"Yeah."

"Well, one night I was taking the trash out back. It was cold as hell outside, and these two skinny cats were huddling together, stranded. I actually thought Hart was dead at first. They looked horrible, so I couldn't just let them die. I ended up coaxing Sasha over to me with a little bit of cheese. Long story short, I got the two cats inside and fed and watered.

"Strictly speaking, my apartment didn't allow pets. I took the cats to the vet, and damn, did they eat up my paycheck that month. I had to get them dewormed and give them shots and all sorts of medicine. They made a ton of noise, and the shelter said that they didn't seem feral. So I had them put the cats up for adoption.

"A few weeks passed, and I called the shelter to see if the cats had been adopted. They hadn't. It was because people coming in were interested in taking kittens, and these guys were already a few years old. And then… and then the shelter said that they'd have to put them down if no one came within the next few days to take them.

"I couldn't just let them die, so… I adopted them. I didn't know anyone else who could; a lot of my family is allergic. When I got back to my place, my landlord threw a fit, but I knew he needed the rent I paid him and he wouldn't kick me out. I kept the place really, really clean for him too, so he didn't yell at me again. I guessed that some other owner had dumped the cats on the streets because they were already litter trained, which was great. I don't know why, but all they did was follow me around the first couple weeks.

"That part was… a little creepy. They'd follow me into whatever room I was in and sit about ten feet away, just watching me. It wasn't until a few weeks later when they'd actually come up to me to pet them or allow me to be in another room without watching me. I couldn't believe it when they finally refused to sleep anywhere but in my arms at night."

He sighed and ran his thumb down the edge of one of the pictures.

"I realized how lonely I'd been before they came around. My roommates had moved out, and I'd just stayed busy in order to keep myself distracted. But then, when Hart and Sasha came around, they sort of just… I don't know. They made me feel less alone.

"When I enlisted for Project Freelancer, I was dreading the results of the testing either way it went. I really wanted the job, but… I didn't want to think about what would happen to the cats if I had to leave home.

"I was shocked when I found out I had actually been employed. Shocked, happy, and… really sad." Wash swallowed hard. "I put them up for adoption myself. Found them a good family the day before I left. The parents had two little kids—twins—and they seemed nice. The last time I saw Hart and Sasha was the morning I left for the Project. I know they're just cats, but I asked the family if I could see them again when I get a break and go back. They said that they'd definitely let me, so I have a plan now. After I get my AI implant and adjust to it, I'm going to request a weekend off. I'll go see my family and take a look at Sasha and Hartford and make sure they're all doing okay." Wash stopped suddenly and looked up at me. "That sounds really, really stupid, doesn't it? They're just cats."

"Not at all." I gently set the pictures back in his locker and hugged him. "They made you feel better when you were alone. Nothing's more important than that. And you'll see them soon. If you're requesting a weekend off after adjusting to Epsilon, it won't be long at all. You're up for surgery next." I ran my fingers lightly across his back and chuckled. "I just don't want to spend a weekend here without you. Jerk. Abandoning me like that." I flicked his ear good-naturedly.

Wash grinned, burying his face in my hair and inhaling deeply. "But you're coming with me."

"Wait—what?"

"You heard me."

"I can't!" I laughed. "You know I don't _actually_ work for Project Freelancer. I'd get fired if Hale found out I left a mission to go on a weekend vacation!"

"You could say you were monitoring me," Wash said slyly. "I do need extra supervision, you know."

"That's true. Can't let you go anywhere alone."

"I could always abduct you too," Wash said thoughtfully. "You can't get in trouble if you didn't have any say in the matter."

"Yeah, and on the criminal reports it'll say my kidnapper stole me away to go meet his cats and family," I replied dryly.

"It's the perfect crime." Wash pecked me on the lips and stood up. "Come on. If we hurry, we can catch the rest of the Grifball. York still owes me five bucks from the last game anyway, and I'd hate to miss watching him lose again."


	37. Request 3: Pre-Implantation

( Your third request comes from an anonymous reader asking for some Wash/Eleven drama. And this felt appropriate considering... recent episodes. )

* * *

><p>I breathed deeply, slowly waking from a restless sleep. Looking up, I saw he was already awake, his eyes wide, anxious, and staring at the ceiling. At registering my movements, he looked down and forced a smile.<p>

"Morning, beautiful."

"Good morning." I hugged him tightly. "Did you get some rest?"

He shook his head.

"Me neither."

Neither of us had slept much during the night. Of course, part of that had _certainly_ been intentional, but even our embraces had seemed desperate and needy, as if it were the last—

No. No, he would be fine. The implantation would go well. Carolina had just been stupid. Wash wasn't scheduled for two AIs. He would only have one. We would meet up after the surgery and joke about his new inverted penis and how that would cause some problems for us at night.

We lay in silence for another few moments, my hand brushing lightly over his bare chest. I repeated in my mind everything the Counselor had explained to me during the briefing, attempting to reassure myself over and over again that Wash was completely safe.

After what seemed like just a few seconds, Wash squeezed me tightly and kissed the top of my head. "I have to get ready now." We both sat up and he stepped out of the bed, walking over to his closet and retrieving his uniform.

"So," I said, feigning casual disinterest. "Who are you going to choose to be your observer?"

Wash stopped and looked at me, chuckling. "Who do you think?"

I shrugged. "Well, I… North chose South, and York chose Carolina, so you might want a Free—"

"Don't worry, Ells," Wash interrupted, watching me intently. "I'm choosing you. You'll be in the observation room for the implantation. You'll see the whole thing."

I smiled a little in relief, though I knew the grin didn't reach my eyes.

"David…" I said slowly. After I pulled on my black under-armor layer, I stood up and hugged him, though he was only wearing half his armor. "I'm just… I'm so nervous for you."

Wash smiled sadly, attempting optimism. "Come on, you've seen all my stats. Hell, you created my stats. I'm trained for all this, and I'm only getting one AI."

"Stats are numbers on paper, and we don't know how each AI acts. This… this is different."

Wash forced a laugh. "Well, if I die, then that'll be one less person to annoy you all the time."

"Dave, you know that I—"

He interrupted me with a swift kiss, short but passionate.

"I'm going to be fine," he said determinedly.

"Promise?"

"Promise." He watched me for a moment and then broke the hug, reaching beneath his armor to grab a chain from around his neck. "Here," he continued, unclasping the chain and hooking his own dog tags around my neck. "See? I need those. I'll be coming back for them in a couple of hours."

I smiled and watched him finish dressing, finally in everything but his helmet.

"All right," Wash said finally, taking a deep breath. "It's time."

He needed to leave before me in order to prepare for the operation; after he informed the staff of his choice of observer, they would radio me just before the procedure and give me the security clearance to enter the implantation observation area. Wash embraced me briefly again and walked toward the door.

Just as he was about to exit the room, he stopped and turned to me.

"Ells…" he began. His lips then slowly formed the shape of my name… my real name. He whispered it. A pause. "I love you."

Without another word, he shut the door behind him.


End file.
